Cemetery Musings

So somebody asked me the other day where is the one place I'd like to go when all of this hunkering down is over. Was it a favorite restaurant? A hike? Church? While all of those things will be enjoyed and appreciated, it's not the place I'm most wanting to be right now. After thinking it over for a day or two, my answer may surprise you. But it's true. 

I want to visit a cemetery. 

For years, I've had this special relationship with cemeteries. I love them, honestly. I've walked in the one where my great-great-grandfather is buried; I've lingered among the fading headstones at historic Princeton cemetery where former a president, signer of the Declaration, preachers, and other famous people lie in repose; I've taken in the sights of World Trade Center bent steel in a cemetery in Texas and the rows on rows of headstones in two military cemeteries: Arlington and the one near where I live. While each place holds its own special feel, there is an atmosphere common to all that I treasure every time. 

Some might call this love of cemeteries a bit morbid, but there's a beautiful feel to these hallowed spots that words escape me to fully communicate. And somehow, I've had a respect and appreciation for these places pretty much all my life. But especially beginning in the spring of 2007. I sought meaning there after losing my friend Mike the previous fall. Attending the annual Memorial Day ceremony at the national cemetery on base here, it was the first time I felt I could grieve his brave passing in a space that was fitting. It would be ten years before I would make it to his graveside in Arlington to finally say goodbye, but at least I could stare up at that flag soaring above the rows on rows of white and be thankful for his sacrifice in combat, for loving his country and his beloved Alaska enough to give his life. After experiencing a personal side to that national holiday of remembrance, a cemetery began to become a place of refuge for me. As more and more people I knew died, there was something healing about being able to come to a place like that and just be. To contemplate one's mortality and vow to live your one life with purpose...in their honor. 

A year ago, I once again found peace at that cemetery only one week after receiving the devastating news that a best friend was gone. Every Memorial Day, I always texted him from that cemetery. Let him know that I was thinking of him - because I knew he was reflecting too. We were both missing Mike, Grant, Andy, Christopher...and so many others. Somehow, hurting together made it okay. And now, those texts would never happen again. My Alex had joined the ranks of those who now lay under the soil they've fought to defend. Even as the tears streamed down my face at the playing of Taps - even as my heart was numb from the shock of a goodbye I least expected - I knew this quiet place would bring me some peace. And it did. 

As the months have ticked by and more loss has happened, the only place I've wanted to be was a cemetery. Even if it didn't hold the resting place of somebody I knew, I just wanted to find a place to think and to mourn. 

You see, cemeteries create a space where grief is permitted. In a culture that tells you sadness isn't okay, cemeteries give you an escape. Studies show that, in modern times, we tend to give a grieving person about two months - two months where their loss in still on our minds and we are still engaged with their suffering. After that is often when people start to get uncomfortable with the sadness. That is when the questions begin of if you'll remarry, when you'll move on, statements start by hoping that you'll find your happiness soon. And you begin to feel like it's not okay to hurt and miss the one you love. And you just want to get away from everyone else's discomfort with your sorrow and be among those who understand. For me, cemeteries do that like no other. 

In a cemetery, nobody is going to hurry you along or tell you you're taking too much time. Nobody is going to think you're odd for letting the tear-flood come. Nobody is going to walk up to you and ask, "what's wrong?" because they know you wouldn't be here if nothing was wrong. Cemeteries give you room to breathe. Space to be left alone with your thoughts and to think about what was... what might have been. A breeze slightly rustles the trees, and bird sounds it song in the distance. Except for the flap of the flag on the flagpole, all is hushed in this serene location. Maybe the notes of Taps sound yet again or maybe other mourners walk silently by and give you that quiet nod that indicates you all know why you're there. But these places allow you to step away from the constant barrage of suggestions on how to grieve, when to grieve, if it's alright to grieve. Here, you just find a place to sit and you all you're left with is your own thoughts. 

Sometimes one gets tired of explaining the sorrow. Of trying to tell people why sadness is a welcome friend and why grief cannot be rushed. During this time of sequester, I've had lots of extra moments and hours to gain some distance a bit from the seemingly endless string of farewells in the past fifteen months. Nineteen of them to be exact. One wrecking my world more than all the rest. And, more so than any other place I've longed to be, was a cemetery. I've yearned for that silence that only it can give. 

I might not get that for awhile. With ever-changing restrictions on crowd sizes and events, it's possible the annual Memorial Day ceremony might not take place at the cemetery this year. It's rare I miss that event. And it's the only time I get to that place. Carrying the sadness I do at that time of year, it's the only spot I want to be at. I may have to forgo that for once. I also had plans later this year to travel back to Texas to go and get the closure I never thought I'd have to seek. To say goodbye to a light in my life that's gone forever. To sit at the grave of a friend who changed my life and tell them thank you. To hug his parents and attempt to find a way to move forward with a sorrow that will never fully leave. That visit may have to be postponed as well. 

Still, I hold out hope. I will get back to that tranquil site again. I just may have to seek the peace and quiet somewhere else for a time. May have to find a different way to mourn. But find a way I will. Maybe there is something to the wisdom of Ecclesiastes that tells you that the house of mourning has more to teach you than the one of feasting (Ecc. 7:2), and it's good to get near the sober from time to time. Life can't always be one of celebration. Sorrow and joy must both exist together. Deny the one and you only live half a life. And I want to take in all of life, even if that means my heart must feel broken from time to time. At least I still feel something at all. 

For now, I dream of those beautiful, paved pathways winding through rows of graves. Reminders to me that this is someday all our fate. That to hope in something eternal beyond death is the only grace that can season a sad soul.