Grave Thoughts at the Graveyard

Posted on May 30, 2011 by Margaret

As is true every Memorial Day, we visited Rosehill Cemetery. Eleven of our loved ones are buried there, the first in 1911, 100 years ago. And eight empty graves lie waiting, a troublesome thought.

Mom’s ancestors didn’t enjoy cemetery visits, but Dad’s family made it a tradition, particularly on Memorial Day. In the early 1900’s they toted picnic fixings to Rosehill for lunch and watched a parade of period-dressed Civil War characters. Canons were fired and actors played the parts of soldiers, complete with grieving widows dressed in black.

Today as we assembled around the Johnson family plot where Nate is also buried, we heard the canons fire on the other side of the cemetery near the Civil War graves. But our focus was on what had occurred to cause one of our empty graves to be recently filled.

Nate’s burial took place 18 months ago, and I wasn’t sure how it would feel to revisit his grave. This would be our first look at his headstone, made to match that of my Dad’s family a few feet away. Birgitta and I arrived first, and when we saw the marker, we couldn’t hold back our tears. Last year, six months after Nate’s death, our Rosehill visit was traumatic, but there was no gravestone then, and it didn’t impact us then like it did today.

Mary, our excellent family historian, brought along her Memorial Day binder with its documents, photos and clippings, all in reference to the relatives buried at Rosehill. Lars read an old blog post written two weeks after Nate died, reminding us aloud that God gives us victory over death through Jesus Christ. (1 Corinthians 15)

As we continued to talk about our ancestors and mostly about Nate, the sorrow of missing my husband welled up and spilled over. I couldn’t stop crying. But as Nate told me when I cried during his cancer, “Crying lets out some of the sadness.” And out it poured.

Every widow is lifted when others miss their man. Our family grouping, though small this year, was a special bunch whose shared tears meant a great deal to me.

Days pile into years, and we all know the empty graves will bring us back to Rosehill with other sad stories of loss. But Scripture details the togetherness of our future on the other side of death. My nephew shared a thought about the shortest verse in the Bible, “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) It happened just minutes before Jesus raised his good friend Lazarus from the dead.

Andrew told us of the original translation of the word “wept” and of Jesus’ intense distress over death’s presence in our world. Although he will one day kill death permanently, for now we’ll all experience it and continue to suffer deeply when those we love are taken.

Waiting for Christ’s ultimate victory over death isn’t easy, but God keeps his every promise. One future day we’ll watch his prediction come true as he puts an end to all grave scenes in graveyards.

“The last enemy to be destroyed is death.” (1 Corinthians 15:26)

Late for Church

Posted on May 29, 2011 by Margaret

I woke this morning to my mother, whom we fondly call Midge, knocking on my bedroom door.

“Birgitta, are you up yet?”

I rolled over sleepily, wondering how it could possibly be morning already. She kept knocking.

“Church starts at 10:30. We need to leave here by 10:20!”

I glanced at the clock: 9:45. Unable to speak this early, I dragged myself out of bed in annoyance, wondering why she continued to pound on the door instead of just opening it as she usually does when I’m at the cottage, where my alarm is somehow much less effective.

I yanked the door open to let her know I was awake, remembering that I’d locked it the night before to prevent Jack the dog from bashing his head against it in order to open it so he could come and go as he pleased.

Midge, already in her Sunday best, left my doorway upon seeing me vertical. I turned on some music to get ready, as I do every morning, and hurriedly rummaged through my messy pile of clothing, quickly selecting a dress to wear. After showering, I headed back to my room to find I couldn’t get the door open. Locked. Quickly noticing my dilemma, Midge looked up from the book she had been reading in her La-Z-Boy.

“Uh oh,” she said as she got up to offer assistance.

“How is this possible?” I said angrily as I jostled the doorknob. “I didn’t lock it!”

“That’s strange,” Midge replied. “Maybe we can get it open with a screwdriver.” She disappeared into her room and quickly returned with an array of sizes. We each repeatedly attempted to unscrew the lock, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Maybe we need to pound the lock in from the outside,” Midge suggested. “I have just the thing!” She pranced downstairs and came back with a tool from the basement. Again we both banged against the lock, even using a hammer, but it was all to no avail.

“What am I gonna do?” I whined. “I can’t go to church like this!” Remaining calm, Midge thought for a moment.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll go out on the roof and get in through the window.”

“What?!” I squawked, envisioning Midge slipping down the steep slant of the roof to the concrete 20 feet below. “No, Midge. If anything, I should go out there. Not you!” But she insisted.

“No, no, no, honey, I wouldn’t want you to fall. I can do this.” And with that she slipped off her shoes, hopped up on a chair, and began climbing out her bedroom window onto the roof.

“Midge!” I yelped as I stuck my head out the window behind her. “You should not do this!” But she had already scaled the slippery slope like a pro and was standing in front of the window to my bedroom, devising a way to remove the screen from the outside. “Oh gosh,” I muttered as I clutched my phone, ready to call 9-1-1 in case she should fall.

“I just need a little screwdriver to get this screen off!” She yelled back to me. “My dresser, top drawer!” I ran to her dresser for the screwdriver, wondering who I should call second, after 9-1-1.

“Here!” I shouted as I leaned out the window to hand it to her.

“Perfect,” she replied, taking the screwdriver, not the least bit worried. I watched in amazement as she popped off the screen within seconds and leapt through the window.

“Thank you, Midge,” I said gratefully after she had unlocked the door and I had reentered my bedroom. I resumed getting ready, realizing that after almost 21 years as her daughter, I never knew what a risk taker Midge was!

* * * * * * * *

Birgitta’s narration of our morning reminds me of John Lennon’s line, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” This morning’s lock-out made us very late for church (we actually missed the whole service), and similar sidebars happen daily to each of us.

But we have an excellent model of how to respond. Jesus’ ministry was one interruption after another, yet he always acted with grace, seamlessly weaving each unplanned set of circumstances into his rearranged day. He paid attention to the moment and turned each disturbance into an opportunity to do good.

May we do as well.

“All of us who look forward to his coming stay ready, with the glistening purity of Jesus’ life as a model for our own.” (1 John 3:2)

Check the numbers.

Posted on May 23, 2011 by Margaret

Tonight my mind and heart are still at yesterday’s memorial service for Jim Rabb, the 32 year old son of good friends. Though hundreds assembled to honor his memory and encourage his brokenhearted family, the event was sorrowful.

As we waited for the service to begin, I studied the program and noticed we’d be hearing from both of Jim’s parents. His mom and I grew up together at Moody Church, and once we’d married and had families of our own, we spent summers in Michigan cottages a block apart.

Jim’s father, John, shared valiantly and effectively about the strong relationship he had with his son, but because I’m a mother like my friend Lois, I longed to know what she was thinking. Speaking at this emotionally-packed occasion would be a burdensome task, and I admired her willingness to stand in front of a microphone at all.

Lois did a beautiful job, and her words held power. She talked warmly about her son, describing daily phone chats and frequent affirmation of their love for each other, from the time he was a little boy.

Then she told a story about her favorite Scripture verse, Romans 8:28. “We know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” Through the years, the Lord has sent what she called “little hugs” through those biblical reference numbers, again and again.

For example, on New Year’s Day this year, she was luxuriating in a morning when she didn’t have to set her alarm or get up early. As she lay in bed talking to the Lord in the first moments of a new year, she turned to see what time it was. Her bedside clock said, “8:28”, a little hug from God to start off well.

Five months later, after having just heard the devastating news of her only son’s sudden death, she looked again at a clock. At that critical moment, it said, “8:28”. As her heart was racing double-time and her head pounding with an impossible reality, God gave her a firm hug and said, “Lois, you can’t see it now, but my purposes in all this are positive and far-reaching. Everything is going to turn out well.”

A mother who’s able to stand and speak to hundreds at her own child’s memorial service could only do it because God was already making good on his 8:28 promise to her.

Tonight, just before I sat down to write this post, I went to the kitchen for some iced tea. As my mind flooded with thoughts of Jim and his family, I glanced at my oven clock.