Tag Archives: cemetery

The Man at the Cemetery

Blizzard1_-_NOAA

He’s still there… 

 

The last time I blogged about the man at the cemetery, it was the one year anniversary of the death of his wife.  Then I went on Christmas vacation, so my 4:00 trips past the cemetery leading into town also took a hiatus.  I’ve been working a little later than usual since returning to work in January, so my opportunities to view the cemetery didn’t always fall at the same time my friend would make his daily visits.  However, he’s still there. That fact was made quite clear a couple of days ago as I drove home in blowing snow, the fluffy fat lake effect kind that piles high on everything in which it lands and with wisps to gusts of wind flies wildly in the air and drifts across the road making visibility less than ideal.  I was surprised, and honestly saddened, to view the man at the cemetery standing, as usual, with his head down, hands in his pocket, staring at the headstone for his wife. I was angry. And what right do I have to be angry? It’s not my business how he grieves. Grief is a personal journey, unique to each of us. But I was angry! I wanted to shake him and beg him, “Please, please, stop this. Please go home. Please be warm. Please be safe. Read a book. Call a friend. Take a class. But please stop subjecting yourself to this raw grief day in and day out. Please!“   How very selfish of me. I freely admit it, so no need to tell me that. My heart aches, and my mind does not comprehend. I want “my friend” to find joy again. And seeing him through the freshly falling snow as the wipers of my car worked overtime made my heart break.

 

He’s still there…

“It’s the little things in life, you know?”…The Man at the Cemetery Gets a Gift

from Painted Sky Designs

“Can you keep a secret?”  That’s the message that awaited me in my facebook inbox last week.  With the permission of this superperson, I write today’s blog.

 

In my last blog about the man at the cemetery, this is what I shared.  “I turned into the cemetery, driving past the grieving man.  While I didn’t look up when I passed, I did  look as soon as I turned the corner in the cemetery.  He did not follow my car.  It was as if my entry into his cemetery was of no consequence to him.  I observed that his chair was actually a bench, with the design of two deer, probably brought over from another spot in the cemetery.”

 

What I didn’t know at the time was that this bench was not moved from another location in the cemetery.  It was a gift, placed there under the cover of night, by another family who also grieve for the stranger who daily visits the grave of his late wife.  Here is what my facebook message said, “As the weather is getting colder I just wanted him to have somewhere to sit so he wasn’t on the ground cold.  It’s the little things in life, you know?”

 

She’s right.  Her simple gesture, given so freely from a caring heart rising about the restraints of “But I just don’t know what to do,” found something to do.  Something so simple, given without wanting a thanks, without wanting praise.  Something so simple as providing a warm place for the grieving man to sit as he talks to his wife who can no longer comfort her husband after a bad day at work.  I was stunned, honestly, as it sunk in what had been done for this man.  He knew, I am sure, that he was cared for.  He knew in that moment of finding that bench that he wasn’t alone on his journey.  Probably he’ll never talk to this stranger.  Probably he’ll never say thanks.  But he’ll know.  He will know he’s not alone in this world.  Yes, that one simple gesture really mattered.  I see her act as a challenge.  Isn’t there someone in our daily life, a stranger, or most likely someone we know well, who could use a random act of kindness?  Could we smile more?  Could we say, “How is your day?”  Could we stop and really listen? 

 

For it is often the little things in life that mean the most.

 

Fun coincidence, or not?  The etching on the bench of the deer compliments the etching of the nature scene on the headstone…

 

The Man at the Cemetery…Fall Rain and Tears

It is a dreary, rainy day in the Midwest today.  The picture above, taken near my home, shows the changing leaves, cloudy sky, and wet pavement.  I hate the fall.  I truly do.  I dread it every year.  I don’t mean to be a complainer, but it is my reality that in the fall lie the anniversaries of the death of my mom, the death of my dad, the birthday of my mom, and the birthday of my dad.  It is just a season that brings me back to so many unhappy memories in my life:  being stripped away from a church hayrack ride and bonfire to be told of my dad’s accident and being interrupted by the operator on the phone to accept a call from my grandma to tell me of my mom’s death, weeks after the start of the school year.  Plus, though the leaves are pretty and the hot, humid days are past, with the season also come days like today:  dark, dreary, cold, and rainy.

 

As I drove home from work, my “friend” at the cemetery sat in the light drizzle,  head down, toward the headstone of his wife.  I did something today that I have never done.  I turned into the cemetery, driving past the grieving man.  While I didn’t look up when I passed, I did  look as soon as I turned the corner in the cemetery.  He did not follow my car.  It was as if my entry into his cemetery was of no consequence to him.  I observed that his chair was actually a bench, with the design of two deer, probably brought over from another spot in the cemetery.  He stood up, placed his hands in his pocket, and other than rocking gently back and forth, did not wander from his spot in front of the headstone.  Nor did the rain seem to affect him.  He moved to the other side of the headstone and did what it is that only he knows from the other side.  Tell his wife about his day?  Tell her all the things he misses about her?  Tell her about the pain in his heart?  I don’t know.  That is not my business.  I won’t drive by again, quite so close.  I was curious, as I have been observing from afar for months now.  I do have a male friend who has stopped, who has heard the man’s grief story.  I am not going to do that, though I am comforted knowing that someone has.  The one year anniversary of “my friend’s” loss is nearing in December.  As others joyously prepare for the onslaught of holidays that fall on the calendar at the end of the year I wonder if he dreads these “first” holidays or eagerly awaits their arrival, knowing that the year of “firsts” is almost through.  I wonder…

 

So, for those of you that love fall, I am happy that you can receive joy in the beauty of the season.  I certainly see the joy in the eyes of my children playing football or apple picking or heading back to school.  But on some days I also feel every drop of rain as if each is a fresh tear reminding me, just reminding me.  And it is okay to be reminded…

The Man at the Cemetery…Continued

As many of you know I work in the school system, so during the summers my schedule is not determined by a clock.  (I know I am very lucky.) So, I did not pass by the cemetery at the edge of town every day at 4:00 as I had done during the school year.  I did not pass the man at the cemetery who, every day, would visit the grave of his deceased wife. I am back to school now, so I thought you might like an update…..

 

He is still there. 

 

For a refresher, please refer to these previous blog links:

http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/29/my-friend-at-the-cemetery-and-baseball-will-he-make-it-to-home-plate/

http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/12/while-life-goes-whizzing-by-for-one-man-it-stands-still/

 

Every day when I round a bend in the road I look south and view the shiny red car that sits along the path at the cemetery.  This week I have observed him sitting and standing.  Usually he is looking at the ground or upon the headstone, I imagine communicating with his wife, whether verbally or within the confines of his mind.  For the first time this week I saw him stand and look upon the headstone from the other side as if reading the information printed upon the marker.  To think at the end of a person’s life, the marking upon a headstone so impersonally decribes a person’s life with little more than the name, birthday, and death day.  I wonder if that’s what he was thinking, too.  “She was so much more than a name and date.  She was a living being, beautiful, and loving- someone who shared her life with me, someone I miss, so badly that I need to come tell her every day.“

 

It saddens my heart, but it is not my place to judge how another grieves.  I just hope he finds comfort in his visits.  Say a little prayer for the man at the cemetery today and all others who live their grief journeys daily.

The Man at the Cemetery: An Update

It’s been three days in a row now with temperatures reaching 100 degrees in the Midwest.  Yet he still goes….

 

I work in the schools, so I have my summers off.  I no longer travel by the cemetery every day at 4:00, the time the man at the cemetery would be there, day in and out, no matter the weather.  Yet a few days ago I traveled that route and found my friend at the cemetery sitting on the ground wearing what appeared to be his normal attire:  hat, button down shirt, and denim, perhaps jeans.  Yes, during the hottest time of the day he was still there, visiting with his wife who no longer lives.

 

I have not blogged about the man at the cemetery for quite some time. I made no new observations.  He was still just another person in a sea of people who go through the motions of their day grieving while those around him are oblivious to the churning tide of emotions within his soul.  I have been asked by several people, though, if I have any more information on the man at the cemetery.  They, too, whether through their own observations or through my blog, have come to ponder on his life and the wellness of his heart.  I do have more information, but I will be respectful of the information that I have.  I have done a google search of the name on the tombstone.  For myself, I wanted to know the connection he so obviously shared with the person he visited every day.  It is amazing and frightening what one can discover with google.  It was his wife.  It was possibly a remarriage.  She died too soon.

 

But there is more…  I have a friend who felt compelled to stop and speak with the man at the cemetery.   Separate from my observations, he’d also pondered about the condition of the man who rarely missed a day, or multiple times a day, visiting with his departed wife.  What I can’t tell you is the nature of those conversations.  My friend asked that I honor the privacy of this man and his story.  It may seem conflicting that I would blog so openly about my observations yet not share information that you would probably want to know, right?  We all slow down on the interstate to watch the effects of a car accident, right?  We turn to CNN for every word after a national tragedy.  It’s only natural to want to know the nature of every bit of the conversations between my friend and the man at the cemetery.  But I can’t.  While he shared surface details with me, I stopped myself from asking more of the questions that I wanted answers to.  You see, it’s not my story.  It’s his story.  The fact that he was willing to share with my friend gives me comfort that he can at least tell his story, which not everyone can.  But it’s not my place to share the intimate details of his story.  So, I have nothing new to add to the story of the man at the cemetery.  I am sorry, but I hope you understand.  He is still there.  He still grieves.  His story still breathes life, continuing the grieving process.

 

One take-away I get from this story, and its many parts, is that no matter what craziness is going on in my life, the go-go-go of my children’s activities, my friend/family/work commitments, the calendar that doesn’t seem to have room for one more thing. This I know is true:  That person next to me on the bleachers at a game.  That woman at the stoplight who won’t go the second the light turns green.  That friend who won’t answer my calls. They all have a story, and maybe I can try to be a little more empathetic and not so quick to judge.  Everyone has a story….

It is Well With My Soul: Thoughts Upon the Man at the Cemetery

I was recently thinking of “my friend” at the cemetery.  I have still seen him regularly, though there have been days he has missed, or perhaps, just altered his time.  For some reason I think of this song in my thoughts of him lately:  “It is Well with My Soul.”  In preparing this blog, I googled the title and learned something interesting about the resilience of one unknown man faced with the greatest of tragedies.

 

According to Wikipedia, “It is Well with My Soul” was written by Horatio Spafford in the late 1800’s after several shocking events.  His son died at age four which was then followed by a financial loss in the family due to the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.  Sending his wife and all four of his daughters ahead on a ship to Europe for a trip while he finished dealing with financial issues, he received a telegram from his wife saying, “Saved alone,” as she was the lone survivor in his family after an Atlantic collision that sunk his family’s ship.  It was soon after this event that he wrote the song.  One cannot even begin to imagine the great pain that must have been in his heart.

 

¶ Verse 1 
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

¶ Refrain 
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

¶ Verse 2 
Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
 (Repeat refrain)

¶ Verse 3 
My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
 (Repeat refrain)

¶ Verse 4 
And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
 (Repeat refrain)

What have I learned from this research?  The human spirit, with God’s grace, can rise above the most awful of circumstances dealt upon a person.  It is not easy.  It is not desirable.  It is downright hell on earth many, many times.  But the human spirit can rise again.  At least that is my hope…

 

And it is because I can hear my Grandpa singing this song in my head, that I have chosen to show his picture.  He was one of the closest people to God that I have ever known.  And I miss him.

My Friend at the Cemetery Has a New Car

He has a new car!   My friend at the cemetery…has a new car.  When the cemetery comes into view as I return home from work, the first thing I always see is a dull dark  pick-up truck, the symbol of a grieving man’s heart, dull and dark, running on empty.  But lately I haven’t seen the brown truck.  Lately, as I turn the bend I’m confronted with a bright, shiny red sports car.  So, maybe not a sport, sports car, you know, like a Corvette or a Mustang.  More like my bright red Chevy Cavalier I so proudly owned out of college.  But bright and red and cheery, none-the-less.  It gives me hope.  Maybe he’s treating himself to a little joy and happiness.  Maybe the cloud of grief is lifting…

My Friend at the Cemetery and Baseball… Will He Make it to Home Plate?

There is something special about spring in the Midwest.   The birds are chirping at sunrise, the walkers are out early, the afternoon air warms from the early morning chill, the squeals of children on the playground carry in the light winds.  People have an extra step to their walk, shoulders back, smiles on their faces.  Yes, spring is good.

 

In our house spring also means baseball.  We live near the baseball field, and there really is quite nothing like the crack of the bats and cheers of the crowd that carry into our windows every night.  The hotdog diet starts soon as we rush from concession stand to concession stand of neighboring fields following our kids as they travel from base to base.  We love it!  Sometimes we carry our folding chairs to set up along the first or third base line.  The chairs rarely leave our van, a permanent fixture in the vehicles of hundreds of others just like us. 

 This week I realized some things about my “friend” at the cemetery.

( http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/12/while-life-goes-whizzing-by-for-one-man-it-stands-still/  and http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/16/a-continuation-my-friend-at-the-cemetery/ )

 

1.  He carries a chair, too.  But he’s not going to baseball games.  No, this week I learned that he carries a chair.  To sit at the cemetery.  To talk to his loved one.  To settle in for a game he plays alone, wrestling with the pain that so obviously lives within his heart.  He’s not relishing in the joy of being with others at a ballgame.  He’s not yelling at bad calls.  He’s not upset when his son doesn’t hit the ball.  Does any of that matter anyway, really?  He’s just trying to make it to the end of the game.  And last week, when I saw him with another person at the gravesite I had real hope that he’d win this “game” of life and make it to home plate with hope in his heart, too.  But then last night, I learned this second bit of information about my friend.

 

2.  He doesn’t just go to the cemetery every day at 4:00 pm.  He’s also often there at 5:00 am in the morning, too.  Yes, twice a day, probably before and after work. The sun is not up at 5:00 am.  Illuminated only by the parking lights of his dark pick-up truck, my friend starts his day grieving.  I have not seen this myself, but the husband of a close friend shared this news with me.  He has often thought of stopping.  Putting our 5am and 4pm stories together makes for a much larger story, in my mind.  While I have never been a cemetery griever, I do not judge those that are at all.  For many it is so very important to visit there.  But somehow knowing that my friend feels the need to visit twice a day, perhaps every day, breaks my heart.

 

Will he make it to home plate?  Does he need a caring coach?  Does he need a team to carry him through?  Does he know that the baseball commissioner in life, otherwise known as God, wants him to score a home run again?  I can only hope and pray. 

My Friend at the Cemetery…This Week’s Observations

I learned two things about my friend at the cemetery this week.( http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/12/while-life-goes-whizzing-by-for-one-man-it-stands-still/ )

 

1.  He is not deterred by bad weather.  Today as it lightly drizzled, he stood, with head reverently bowed, hands in pockets, looking upon the memorial of his loved one.  He wore no jacket.  He used no umbrella.

 

2.  He had company on Wednesday!  People have offered their advice as to what I should or should not do about my “friend” at the cemetery.  Some say I should stop by, say hello, leave a note for him to find… maybe.  I have certainly considered these options, but if I did that he would know.  He would know that someone has been watching him.  Wouldn’t that take away from his special time?  Maybe make him self-conscious?  I could not take that risk.  Of course there is another side of me that thinks, what if he has no one?  What if no one tells him that he is special, too?  This week he had company.  I first came upon the scene when I noticed two vehicles, not just the dark pick-up truck, parked near the gravesite.  The young woman had very long hair, past her waist.  She talked with my friend.  I do not know if the two knew each other or if she was simply visiting her own special gravesite.  But I was so happy to find that at least for one day, one moment in time, someone else shared his story.  That makes me happy.   :-)

A Continuation…My Friend at the Cemetery

An update from my blog post earlier in the week, http://marcyblesy.com/2012/03/12/while-life-goes-whizzing-by-for-one-man-it-stands-still/ .

 

Yesterday the pick-up truck at the cemetery sat parked in its normal spot, near the grave marker that means so much to someone.  I worried as I drove by as the man who usually stands with his hands held in his pockets, looking solemnly at the headstone, maybe talking, maybe not, was not there.  I looked closer and found him crouched down near the ground.  I must admit I felt a sense of relief that he was there.  Today he sat cross-legged, as my students do in the library during story time.  It was the first time I’ve seen him sit.  But I imagine there was no one he would rather spend this beautiful, abnormally warm winter day with that the person who is memorialized there.  There he was… settling in, getting comfortable, with the memories that warm his heart like the sun now warms his skin……