Oddity in the Cemetery

This morning, I was the first one to arrive at the Old Union Church of Christ’s meetinghouse, out there in kudzu land traversing the gravel roads tunneling through the forest canopy in some places. When I first started dating Bonnie a few decades ago now, she lived with her family in the west Pennsylvania boondocks, accessible only via a series of dirt roads; now I find myself visiting her grave once more across dusty thoroughfares.

Arriving early afforded me a few moments to visit the site of her mortal repose. Strangely, the flowers from both urns and the flowers atop the monument were all lying on the ground adjacent to their respective placements. The strange part was that no other flowers in the entire cemetery were disturbed in the least. It was as though some rascal of a raccoon or a selective wind grasped the flowery adornments and lifted them from their resting places to simply deposit them neatly on the muddy earth. Puzzled, nevertheless, I reinstalled them in their locations, until such time as I can replace the soiled and weathered embellishments with fresh, artificial flowers.

Sunday morning, I worshipped with the Old Union congregation, and that evening, I assembled with the West President Church of Christ in Greenwood, MS. A new babe in Christ was born again at West President.

Today, was not a good day for me. I thought I was past the extreme grief and that I could worship without being overcome with our Christian music that emphasizes through its hymns death and eternity. I was mistaken and reduced to quivering tears once more. Comfort from some brothers in Christ, with arms around my shoulders, stabilized me in my moments of renewed weakness. This dark journey on which I reluctantly find myself is not over, and lacking the overpowering distraction of applying myself all waking moments in some engrossing activity leaves me vulnerable. When, why and where are imperceptible. Daily, I pray for other widowed saints of whom I am aware and for myself that we might be lifted from our grief and loneliness. I don’t know sometimes what is worse, the grief or the loneliness.

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