journeys-page

My earliest memories of Memorial Day are loading the car with handheld grass trimmers, a watering can, flowers, hangers, wire cutters, and pots. My little brother Casey, Mom, Grandma, and I would head to the Rose Hill Cemetery in Albion. Casey and I would play in the big dirt pile by the shed at the back. Mom and Grandma would go to work. Then we’d pile back into the station wagon, drive to St. Edward, pick up my Grandma Clark, and head up the hill to their cemetery to repeat the process. In later years, the Memorial Weekend Cemetery tour would include Scotia and Greeley, where my Grandma Karges’ relatives are buried. It became an annual pilgrimage. I want to thank Trinity members Betty and Penny, who were up at Rose Hill Cemetery last week to tend to Betty’s family plots. They also put flowers for us at our son Luke’s grave and checked on the other Karges kids’ plots too. As a pastor at graveside internment services, I like to talk about how the grave is just a place. A place for us. It’s the last place we see the remains of our loved ones. We know that their spirit, their essence is with God. But this place is for us; to take care of, to come and talk to them, to go and talk to God. It allows us to keep a thread of our relationship with them alive by taking care of their place of final rest. It’s just a small piece of grass, a little cement foundation, and a rock with a name and date. But it’s our grass, our rock. And keeping the weeds from creeping around the foundation is what I can do right now to express my continued love and care for my child. It keeps the memory alive. The grief that’s always a part of that memory seems to ebb and flow in intensity. But making sure that space is cared for does something for me. It helps with that, and I’m not sure how. Grace & Peace,