My husband and I were cutting grass in a small country cemetery in preparation for a family reunion. As I weaved the lawn tractor between the headstones, I surveyed the names of families who had laid to rest the remains of loved ones beneath the soil. Many names were familiar but there were a number I did not recognize. Folks who had long since moved from the area, their names faded from the memory of their community.
Questions bombarded my mind. Why did they leave? Where did they go? Did anyone ever return to see the markers?
There was evidence that someone had come to visit. Once brilliant-coloured artificial flowers adorned the ground near these sentinels of history, the blossoms now faded and torn. The wind had tossed and shared some petals among the other graves sites.
Tall hedges envelope this area in a green embrace and we found some gravestones hidden there. Someone’s loved ones all but invisible beneath the arching arms of the caragana. We did our best to clean up the markers we could access, cutting, trimming and shoveling as best we could. But we lacked the time and ability to clear them all. We swore a vow to each other to come back and finish what we started with the necessary equipment to clear away the brush and bramble. These are the last remnants of beloved family members and we consider it an honour to maintain their final resting place.
Having been there many times before, we were surprised when we discovered a family member we didn’t know existed. An infant named John Jay Heagy. Almost covered with grass, we found a small marker pressed into the dirt with his name and the year of his birth and death. He was born and died in 1929, almost 100 years ago. None of my husband’s siblings or local cousins knew who this lad was, but when we had supper with an uncle that evening who is 94 years young, he was able to recall whose baby it was and a piece of the family puzzle was put into place.
On chiseled granite and engraved plaques were the names and dates of lives lived, long and short. Born to a mother and father. Someone who was once loved. The evidence was all around us. People cared enough to lay these folks to rest in this quiet beautiful spot. A place to come and visit, a place of connection, of history, of love.
As writers, we not only leave our bones behind when we pass on but we also leave our words. The heritage we leave behind are the words we write, perhaps long remembered after we are long gone. And maybe, just maybe, even beyond anyone knowing our name in connection with the words. Many of the common phrases of the English language have come from the authors of the Bible or from writers like Shakespeare, yet nobody cites them as references or even knows where the familiar phrases come from. Phrases like ‘the blind leading the blind’ or ‘by the skin of your teeth’ come from God’s word. ‘Wild goose chase’ and ‘in a pickle’ come from The Bard of Avon Not that I am comparing any of us and least of all myself with any of these folks but “with God all things are possible.” (Mt 19:26) Just as my beloved and I are honoured to care for the graveyard, we writers must care for and honour the words God gives us to pen.
With a push of a button and the turn of a key the mower and tractor were silenced. My whole being basked in the peace of this place. Truly, there was a sense of all-encompassing peace. Vesper sparrows sang their songs of prayer and added to the sacredness of this place and I thought, ‘Lord how fitting it is that You would fill this place with vespers. Quiet evening prayers. I whispered the word ‘sanctuary’ with a sigh of contentment and blessing and spent a moment more in silence before we loaded up our gear and headed for home.
