Pebbles in a Sling

                 “Sometimes I need
                                        Only to stand

                     Wherever I am

                       To be blessed”

                             --Mary Oliver, Evidence: Poems

 

As a kid, cemeteries always scared me.  I never really understood them.  They seemed so cold and bleak, a sad reminder that life ends and people are slowly forgotten among the tombstones.  It was a place where old people went to sit and cry and talk to themselves about how much they missed someone.  It seemed odd to my childish mind that we just put people in the ground and then carved their name on a big rock and came back every once in a while to stare at the rock and leave flowers there to wilt.

I simply didn't get it.  The meaning and import and weight of a cemetery completely escaped me.  I think now, looking back on it, the idea of a cemetery was so foreign to me because I really had not experienced loss in any deep sense.  The family members whose funerals I went to as a child were distant and foggy to me. Any memories I had of them soon faded and soon all I recall of them was that stark name carved on that rock. 

 

My paternal grandfather grew up on a farm in a poor, undernourished area of East Texas that he often said “caused Norman Vincent Peale to have his first negative thought.”   His parents were school teachers in the local one-room schoolhouse and he and his sisters grew up with very little in the bank but an overabundance of love. My great-grandmother, Stella, was a true bastion of faith and hard-scrabble wisdom. She was strong in a way people just aren't anymore. She had a core of peace that left an impression on everyone she met. I knew her. She died when I was 12. She was 96 years young and is still sorely missed.   Her funeral was the first one where I really cried. The first one where I understood the sadness of a loss.   But, even then, if I am honest, it was not a deep cut.   She had lived a long life--full and complete. Everyone knew she was in Heaven. There is no doubt Stella was excitedly welcomed by her God with open arms---she was a beautiful believer.

She was buried in the family plot in a country cemetery called Holly Springs.  It is a cemetery that is almost too perfect--too idyllic.  An old whitewashed church sits on a small hill across from it, standing guard over its former parishioners.  Old markers from generations and generations past sit scattered among old growth oak trees and cedar.  Some plots have old rusted rod iron fences around them to designate a family area.  It is old and historic and quiet and stately.

 

 

 

 

I had been to that cemetery many times before with my grandfather and my dad, as we walked among the stone and my grandfather told the stories (mostly true) of all the ancestors buried there and their adventures.  As a young boy, I should have loved that.  I hated it.  It scared me.  It was creepy and eerie.

 

And, so now we were going to have to go and bury Stella there. I put on my little suit and obligingly attended the funeral--all the while worried about having to go to that cemetery.  It was silly on my part, but there it was. When we got there and had the graveside service, I noticed my paternal grandmother,  Maurine/Mimi, was watching me.  She knew I was scared.  Mimi always seemed to know.

 

Mimi was one of those people was almost defies explanation.  She was a West Texas spitfire, full of personality and grit.  Stunningly beautiful with jet black hair and an omnipresent twinkle of trouble in her eye, she was one of the funniest people I knew.  She could weave a tale with such elegance and humor that you could listen to her for days.  She was an equal match for my grandfather, which is quite an accomplishment in and of itself.  And, behind that scrappy and funny front, she was one of the truest and most sage Christians I ever will know.  She had a faith that was so strong, so unfailing, so foundational, she always left everyone she talked to in awe.  It was a hard-won faith--it lacked pretense and judgment.  She was one of the absolute heroes of my faith.  Her insight was always spot-on and straight to the heart.  She was unbelievably wise and could cut to the core of a problem like no other.  And, she was the definition of a prayer warrior!  She always interceded for everyone who needed it.  She taught me about God and His faithfulness throughout her life.  She was an example to me of graceful strength.  Mimi was a force of nature.  And, she knew I was scared at Holly Springs that day.

After the graveside, Mimi came up and started walking with me back through the stones.  She was sad, of course, but not despondent.  She was in control.  She looked at me and, with that rebellious twinkle in her eye, said, "Matt, you don't like these places, do you?"

I told her no, they scared me.  You couldn't lie to Mimi.  She smiled.

"Well, that's okay.  But, there's nothing to be sacred of.  It's just the bus station."

That twinkle again.  I looked at her curiously.  She went on,

"Matt, everybody is just here waiting on Heaven.  Waiting for their bus.  So, don't be scared or sad.  These places are really interesting.  They have rules.  Do you see that all the graves face one way?  East? That's because they are all positioned to see Jesus first when He comes again in the East.  These people are ready and waiting...just standing in line for the bus."

I remember that bus station conversation like it was yesterday.  I don't even really know what exactly it means, honestly.  The analogy is a bit odd.  And, I know Mimi firmly believed that we all went to Heaven after we died, and didn't stand in some eternal bus line.  But, to that 12 year old, on that day, those words seemed to snap me out of my fear.  It made the cemetery seem okay.  Benign.  Just a holding station.  Mimi's comfort of letting me know it was just a place to wait in some strange way eliminated my fear of the place.  It began an evolution of my feelings about it, so that now, when I visit a cemetery, I don't feel afraid.  I  feel peace.  Mimi gave me that.  She was truly amazing in that way.

"What misery to be afraid of death.

  What wretchedness, to believe only in what can be proven."

 

                                                             --Mary Oliver

Fast forward 27 years, I find myself visiting a different cemetery.  It isn't in the country, but in the middle of town.  It is still peaceful and quiet, but it doesn't have the weight of history that Holly Springs does.  But, it is still gloriously important.  It is where we buried our daughter--our beloved Elizabeth.  It is still hard--so hard--to go there sometimes.  The gravestone is so simple and stark.  The memories are too new.  The emotions are right there ready to burst.  I can't tell you how many times I have cried at that gravestone hoping with all my might that somehow--in some way--I could reverse this permanence and get my E back.  Sometimes these visits bring peace--sometimes they bring pain.  It's part of the process.  It's how we heal.

But, I feel compelled to go often.  I want to.  I guess I have now become one of those old people who come to the cemetery to cry and talk about those they lost.
 

  

 

 

" When a king reigns, it is thanks to the people;

   when a river sings, it is thanks to the stones."

 

                                           -- Malagasy proverb

 

 

A few Wednesdays ago, I came up to Elizabeth's grave and saw that someone had placed a rock on the top of the headstone. A simple rock.  It gave me comfort that someone had visited Elizabeth.  It warmed my heart.  And, it also made me think...

I had often noticed that my Jewish friends always place stones on the graves of their loved ones.  I have often wondered why they did that.  It seemed like such a beautiful statement.  Simple. Honest . Dignified.  But, I never knew the reason behind this tradition.  

Apparently, it is a Jewish tradition so old, it is somewhat foggy as to its origin.   Tradition says that when one visits the grave of a loved one, they place a stone or pebble ( a tsror) as a sign of remembrance on the headstone. 

The tsror symbolizes permanence and strength. A stone is used because it won't wither and die, like flowers. It is to be a stalwart reminder that someone came to pay their respects to a departed soul.  According to tradition, this act stems from the story in the Bible where the Israelites wandered in the desert with Moses and when some of their number died, they were buried in that arid place by covering them with a cloth and weighting the cloth down with stones. The stones served as an anchor.  A weight keeping the honor and dignity of the loved one intact in a harsh, unforgiving environment.  That is beautiful. 

But, there is another reason that people think this wonderful tradition emerged from the pastoral communities of the Jewish people.   Apparently, as the shepherds would take their flocks out each day to graze, these flocks would have slightly different numbers.  Some days there would be 10 sheep taken out by a certain shepherd, some days 30, etc.  The shepherd's memory was good, but admittedly somewhat inaccurate. As the numbers differed daily, the shepherds needed something to help them remember how many sheep they were responsible for.  So, they would carry a leather sling around their shoulders and, in that sling, they would put a pebble (tsror) for each sheep in their flock. Each stone represented a sheep in their care--one they were tasked with keeping safe.

That is such a stunning image. I was truly struck by it.

For my Elizabeth-- my sweet, strong, deeply missed Elizabeth--God was watching over her as part of His flock.  He has her under His watchful eye and counts her among the precious pebbles in His sling.  That stone placed on her headstone was a reminder that God counts each of us and holds us close.  He won’t leave us.  He won’t abandon us.  The tsror is a strong, solid, comforting symbol of His faithfulness to us as we wander about the fields of life, many times oblivious to the dangers that surround us.  And, when our time to graze the fields is done, when we no longer need to be watched over in our daily lives, we can return home permanently.  The shepherd can then remove his tsror from His sling, a stone reminder no longer needed, as the beloved ward is no longer in danger of loss.  She is home.

And, so, now, in that cemetery, that place I feared so much as a child, on that granite marker that I never wanted to ever see, a simple stone has been placed that gently and eloquently reassures me that this precious child is no longer wandering the fields.  She is home.  Back in the safety of the stable with her Master.   Her tsror is no longer needed in His sling.  It can now be placed on her gravestone to let others know that she is free from her pain, reunited with her Creator, and fondly remembered for her legacy.

So, I have decided that I will leave a stone at Elizabeth's grave from now on.  Flowers will inevitably wilt and die, but that stone will be a permanent, stalwart reminder to me that Elizabeth is remembered and missed, but also that she is fully protected and happily just waiting on that bus ...