I was more than ordinarily affected by the passingness of one generation after another, how that all that made such noise and bluster now, and were so much concerned with their own life, would be clean gone from the face of the earth in sixty or seventy years time, and that the world would be left desolate with respect to them, and than another generation would come on that would be very little concerned with them, and so one after another, it was particularly affecting to me to think that the earth remained the same through all these changes upon the surface: the same spots of ground, the same mountains and valleys where those things were done, remaining just as they were, though the actors ceased. - (Jonathan Edwards, True Virtue)
Last week I was at EQUIP ministry wives conference, and just before lunch a DVD had been shown where a pastor's wife shared how she used to go and 'cry over graves' when things got tough in ministry. The reason she did this was not particularly profound. It was because there, in the graveyard next to her church, she would be uninterrupted in her tears as passers-by would assume she was a grieving relative.
We listened and laughed and related and at the end of the session, we burst out into the bright sunlight juggling our 3 different types of catered sandwich. As there were so many of us, there was no room left in the courtyard, and the only place left to sit was in the graveyard next to the church. Predictably, most of us joked about 'crying on graves' as we headed out the gate to find a little patch of grass.
Our group sat down with our sandwiches and started eating. My friend and I were right next to a particularly old looking grave and while munching away we had a closer look. The grave belonged to a person named Bertha May, and underneath it said she died in 1882; we made some flippant remarks about sharing our lunch with her. Then, I looked again: "aged 11 months, 2 days". Suddenly the jokes about lunch with Bertha and crying on graves didn't seem so funny. There was something profoundly sad about the 11 months and 2 days - her life was so short and every day had been counted.
It was also very strange to realise, as I sat there, that I had a fair idea of at least one event that had happened on that little patch of earth where I was sitting. It's not often that happens is it? I could almost see the grieving family gathered around the same spot that we had gathered for such a different purpose. Was it raining that day? Did the mother wear black? Did she weep over the grave of her daughter, or did she maintain a quiet stoicism?
For so much of my life, I think I carry on unaware of where I fit in the bigger picture, or what came before me. I see myself in a distorted way - like a permanent close up on a big screen, rather than another actor on a constantly revolving stage, treading on the same earth as the men and women who've come before me, chasing after wind. And sometimes I even forget that (unless Jesus returns first), one day I'll be just another name on a gravestone, forgotten by those who come after me.
Pics:
Reflecting, by Aussiegall.
St Anne's from St Anne's website.
Dandelion - by algo.
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