Tuesday, May 31, 2016

The Strange Dichotomy about Cemeteries



Several years ago Karen and I moved from Marietta, GA after thirteen years that provided a roller coaster ride that took a toll on our emotional, spiritual, and physical lives as we experienced the highs of high school and college graduations, a marriage, and the entrance into the world of grand kids.  We also raised our hands as the roller coaster screamed into the depths of hospitalizations and surgeries, boyfriend breakups, and deaths in the family. However, the steepest descent on this ride was naturally caused by the sudden death of Jacob in 2009.

When we moved, one of the more difficult things about the move, besides leaving friends behind and increasing the physical distance between us and Katie, was moving away from the cemetery where Jacob was buried.  And this is when a strange dichotomy about cemeteries developed.

Nobody likes cemeteries (with the possible exception of funeral directors).  They are used as the scenes of many horror films and the subjects of countless scary campfire stories. There is even a great idiom about them …. “Whistling past the graveyard”.

Yet they are a quiet, peaceful place to go if you need solitude and a place to think or to read.  And they are a great place to teach a fledgling student driver how to drive (just ask Karen).

But when we experienced the death of Jacob, the cemetery where he is interred developed an odd dichotomy in our mixture of feelings.

It is a place we dread and try to avoid because of the pain that inevitably appears when we approach the property….. yet it is a place we feel compelled to visit whenever we are in town for reasons we can’t put into words.

Whenever we visit Jacob’s graveside, we never stay more than a few minutes because you stand – and weep – and stare at his gravestone…..yet it is always with great reluctance that we walk back to the car and leave ‘him’ behind.

It’s hard, no, it’s impossible, to explain this conflict of feelings, but I’m going to try.

We understand that the plot of land with the bronze marker at its head only contains the earthly remains of our son.  The soul, the essence of him that was a delight to be around, is not there.  That place contains only the broken down body that wore out on June 14, 2009.   So we get that.

The many memories we have of him are constantly with us.  So we know that we don’t have to be in proximity of the graveside to conjure up those great times.  Those memories come frequently but can also catch us as unexpectedly surprises.  They bring us great comfort and laughter even as the tears stain our faces. So we understand that there’s not a need to go to the cemetery to keep his memories nearby… yet there is to go there.

Every time I consider going to the cemetery, I tried to talk myself out of driving there.  It’s a pain to drive there, traffic is always bad ... but the pain of grief that floods over me when I drive through the stone gated entrance is even greater.  Why submit myself to that pain when Jacob is not really there any way, I try to reason to myself …. yet I still go when I’m in town.

And when I do arrive at Jacob’s grave site, I’m only there a few minutes.  I stand there staring at the grave marker, sometimes with tears welling up in my eyes but other times I’m dry eyed.  It’s really a kind of an awkward time.  I know he’s not there. I know he is no longer suffering. I know he now has a perfect body and is in the precious presence of God.  Yet when I’m there, I sense his presence in a strong and different way.

Sometimes, certain memories come that causes a smile or a sigh.  And then the moment is gone. I sense it’s time to leave …. yet I’m reluctant to do so.  Why?  He’s not there.  He’ll be with me on the walk away from the graveside and when I leave in the car.  He’ll be with me for the rest of the day and the next day and the next.  So why the reluctance? 


 Grief is such an odd companion.