Earlier this week, my Favourite Person and I took his mother on a tour of graveyards in the area surrounding her hometown, as she wanted to see the gravestones commemorating various relatives from her childhood. I expected it to be an interesting drive through some countryside I’d not visited in many years.
It turned out to be much more. At every graveyard we visited, I met reminders of people from my own growing up years, people whom I’d long since forgotten in the passage of time and my growth into adulthood, motherhood, and now middle age. The delight I felt in recognizing names from my past surprised me.
One graveyard, in particular, resurrected a wealth of connection. There was the gravestone of an older woman I remember from church as being a dear lady who exuded gentleness, always offering a soft smile for anyone who greeted her. The couple from whom my parents bought the house from which I moved into my own apartment were also there.
In the corner of that same graveyard was my father in law’s grandmother, who left her first husband for reasons that are now unclear. She then took on a full-time job to support the children she took with her, and ended up marrying another man, resulting in more offspring. The descendants of this large family now populate much of the area in which I grew up.
Then there was the unexpected gravesite of a man I knew as a young adult who died only a couple of years ago, way too young, before he was able to marry his late-in-life fiancé. He was also a good friend of my dad’s, despite the age gap between them, and his fiancé is a longtime friend of mine. I had no idea his grave was in that graveyard so far from town, and so the sight of his headstone brought a rush of memories, connections, and feelings. Right beside him was his younger sister’s headstone, also a death which came far sooner than any of us would have wished.
That small, scenic graveyard gave me a sense of connection to a past version of myself that I had all but forgotten. My memories of the people represented by the various engraved stones reminded me of who I had been in my not-quite-adult years in a way that brought nourishment to this midlife version of me.
Most of all, I had a visceral sense of how all of our stories are interconnected, some woven tightly and others just brushing for a fragment of time. I am who I am because of the people whose lives have touched mine, no matter how briefly.
Then a couple of days later, still in that heart-tender state, I encountered a post from a blog written by Parker Palmer, a contemplative Christian writer whose work has been influencing me for over a decade and a half. He writes of attending a reunion with his wife, and his experience of talking with two elderly veterans. One was reluctant to speak of his experience, and the other had much to say about his life both past and present. Palmer experienced a new appreciation for the importance of hearing another’s stories, whether brief or lengthy, particularly the stories that feel too repetitive or mundane for our comfort. (His blog is on Substack, entitled “Living the Questions”, and the post was called “Hello in There”.)
He writes, “No one wants to die without at least a few people knowing their story and I don’t want to die without learning all I can about my fellow travellers on planet earth.”
This struck a chord with me. I am currently spending a lot of time with someone whose short term memory has been compromised. She very much enjoys talking, and so there are certain small stories of hers that I have heard way more times than I might prefer. Some of those stories I was actually witness to as they were occurring, but she tells them to me as if they are new information. Palmer’s writing reminded me that if the story is important enough to someone else to tell, it is important for me to receive it. I am not receiving information, but rather offering connection and presence.
Which takes me back to my experience in the graveyard. What was important about the names I recognized was their presence in my life, and in the lives of others whom I love. As I read their names, and felt the tears track down my cheeks, I wasn’t thinking of the facts of their lives but rather the imprint of their being on my heart.
May I continue to offer the gift of presence to those who whose stories connect with mine. Together, may we feel the connection of our shared experiences.
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