::view from a cemetery near my home::
I like to sit with the dead. Sitting in the silent finality of a cemetery gives me perspective, reminds me to redeem the brief time I've been given. And in a cemetery, nobody minds if you're crying.
I love the cemetery because prayer comes easily there. I don't know why–perhaps the absence of distraction? The fading away of competing sights and sounds? In the quietness of a cemetery, prayer seems natural. And oh, how I've needed to pray.
I don't do well in small groups or prayer meetings. I'm far too self-conscious. My tongue is tied, my hands tremble. But when I'm alone and surrounded by silence, my heart is free. I can speak easily with my Lord, perhaps like an old friend.
After all, I've been meeting Him in prayer at cemeteries ever since I was 16. When I was a teenager, I would flee the cacophony of my communal home, the burden of spiritual exhibitionism, the compulsion to "prove" I was walking with God–and I would meet Him in silence. At the grave.
I know it sounds morbid, but it's actually a powerfully uplifting experience for me. There is no dread. No fear of death. Indeed, I find a source of strength that comes from being surrounded by those who have gone before, those who have finished their race.
I go there when I've been fighting the shadows in my mind. Sometimes I fear the shadows will overwhelm me. I feel the weight of responsibility–I have five souls to raise. I feel the piercing sting of grief–I mourn a life that has vanished like vapor. I grieve the divisions and soul-rending that were the fallout of my fundamentalist past.
But I always leave hopeful. For me, the cemetery is not a place of endings. It is a place of beginnings.
O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
–William Walsham How
