It’s the storyteller in me.
Lots of people visit cemeteries on Memorial Day, but I visit cemeteries often, especially when passing through an unfamiliar place.
I wander through rows of markers reading history etched on tombstones. Each grave offers a thread of a story, and that thread weaves through time and place, connecting me to strangers. What’s not to love about that?
In March while visiting our son and his family in Grove City, Ohio, a suburb of Columbus, our Airbnb sat directly across the street from the Grove City Cemetery and the adjoining St. John’s Lutheran Cemetery.
Our time in Ohio was filled with making the most out of every delightful moment with our twin grandsons, yet the graveyard beckoned every time I looked out the window. Balloons, ribbons, flowers and Christmas decorations dotted the graves, though the holidays were long past.
On our last morning before heading to the airport, we walked across the street and traveled back in time.
The photos caught my eye.
The newer Grove City Cemetery (established in 1906) had many gravesites that featured photos etched into the markers. They offered a surprisingly intimate glimpse of those buried there.
Like, Lisa, “loving daughter and sister,” who died at 19. Her beautiful smile beamed at us from beneath her blonde upswept hair. Fresh roses bloomed in urns. A ceramic horse had toppled from her marker, so I gently replaced it.
Other mementos brought smiles. A bottle of Blue Moon beer perched beside the grave of Georgia, “Loving Mother, Grandmother and Nana.”
Speaking of grandmothers, one gal’s family called her “Grammer.” I loved that. In fact, if my grandkids tire of calling me Nana, I’ll take Grammar (note spelling change) in a heartbeat.
Some gravestones featured beautiful colorized etchings of the person’s favorite place or activity. A covered bridge over a swirling stream marked the Ogg’s family plot, while the Thomas family monument highlighted a stable on one side and beautiful horses on the other. A bowling ball at the top and a pair of golf clubs at the bottom, showed how Robert and Rose Davis spent their time.
Sadly, many of the graves at the next-door St. John’s Lutheran Cemetery (1860) had grown too old and moss-covered to read. Indeed, some of the stones had fallen over, while towering obelisks some topped with angels or crosses stood sentry.
I caught my breath at one simple plaque, embedded in the ground. “Daddy,” was all it said.
As a mother, I’m always drawn to graves adorned with lambs and angels – children’s graves where the briefest of lives are marked.
A tiny red tinsel Christmas tree fluttered in the March breeze. It marked Darren’s grave. He was born and died Oct. 26, but I couldn’t read the year through my tears.
I hadn’t anticipated the wellspring of grief that the graves of stillborn babies would trigger since we lost our grandson Ian Lucas in 2018.
“Our little angel,” Stephanie Lynn was stillborn April 26, my son’s birthday.
A photo of beautiful Maggie Jean, March 7, 2015-March 8, 2015, brought me to my knees, and since I was there anyway, I prayed for Maggie’s family.
Some housekeeping seemed in order. I righted toppled ceramic angels and Santas, and brushed leaves and dirt from markers, knowing I’d want someone to do the same for my family.
Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get to my son’s house to hold The World’s Most Beautiful Boys one more time.
But I’ll never forget Maggie Jean, Darren, or Chelsea whose gravestone reads, “Walk softly an angel sleeps here.”
Indeed, it might be wise for all of us to walk a bit more softly wherever we tread in these troubled days. The thread of our stories can be ephemeral, but that connection is what we crave.
A stroll through any cemetery reminds us that our time here is just the merest whisper. How much sweeter our echoes would be if we choose to walk softly and be kind.