As I roamed the cemetery reading the names and dates, sayings and commentaries… I stumbled across this inscription. “She was too good, too gentle and Fair To dwell in this cold world.” Someone lost someone dear. Their tears probably fell into the very earth I stood upon as I read the lines.
I have a theory that pain experiences create vacant wells within us. Pain vacancies are cavernous, hollow tombs, longing to be filled. Grace seems to find it way to the tomb’s door, asking for entrance. Grace is a chameleon, appearing to us based on our need. – water for our parched mouths, light in our darkness, comfort when we’re lonely, courage in our weariness. Maybe our need in itself is a grace to us, so that we will look and listen, receive and rest. When we welcome grace inside, the cold, black-and-white spaces, once horrid reminders of loss, become masterpieces in contradictions; grand paradoxes. Grace is miraculous like that.
And so, I roam the little graveyards imagining each spot as grace collectors. Tears and sorrow made way for the sacred and hopeful. I feel respect for those who felt the pain of loss in this very spot. I don’t have to know them to honor them, They are contrasts to fast-paced, mindless living.
Cemeteries are grace collectors.