Lessons from a country cemetery

Wednesday, May 29, 2002
Dawn Cribbs

We took a walk through a country cemetery this weekend, viewing the remembrances of those "beyond the vale" laid to rest over the past 120 years or so.

Quietly, we walked, in search of no one in particular. Our people remain west and south of us a goodly distance, and we have not yet had to face an open grave for one of our own in these parts.

Still, the walk was a sort of history lesson. So many of the older headstones reflected lives lived in the space of months, perhaps a couple of years -- one little boy, with a lamb atop his marker, now worn by time, was just six at the time of his passing. These are the graves of the children lost at the beginning of the century just past. No penicillin, no tetanus vaccine, the children then, and men and women in their prime, fell victim to all manner of disease that we scoff at today. Influenza, pneumonia, the measles and the mumps, could all be the death knell to those who lived then. A snake bite, little hope. That rusty nail, an agonizing end. Appendicitis, little hope of a surgeon, little hope to survive his attempt. Childbirth, a dangerous endeavor. Childhood, a dangerous endeavor as well.

As we walked, it was unavoidable that we would happen on the untended grave site. The majority however, were well-decorated, the resting place of bones remembered on this weekend of remembrance. The personality, work, handshake and smile of the one memorialized here, remembered fondly.

As we walked past the graves, I looked for evidences of faith in what was said on the tombstones. Not much testimony there to the life lived. Mother, son, father, brother listed on some, generally only a name, and the dates that life here began and ended. The chorus of an old hymn rings through my mind even as I write this, I wondered... "Do you know my Jesus? Have you seen my Friend? Have you heard He loves you" And that He will abide to the end?"

In many cases these graves mark the final resting place for the bones of the people who abandoned the crowded and poverty stricken cities of the East to search out their place in this world, their space in this world here on the beautiful but often inhospitable High Plains.

As we go to the Super Wal-Mart, open 24/7, and stock up on potato chips, sodas and cheese, we don't give much thought to the ones who first broke ground to build and to settle here. They literally dug blocks of sod, gnarled with the roots of generations of buffalo grass, to fashion a shelter. They dug deeper for a more private reason, far enough from hearth and well to do no harm, but near enough for comfort when the winter wind wailed and the snow felt like pinpricks of ice slashing the skin. We forget their hardships as we weigh the cost versus the softness of a name brand toilet paper, easily disposed of by depressing a silver handle on a sterile porcelain tank.

The smaller headstones, wearing now so that you have to get closer to read the sparse information provided - these are their children. This one perhaps a snake bite. Another, the red measles. Still another too weak from the beginning to rally back from an arduous birth.

These are the memories of hardship and struggle. Of a community formed from pure need. And of individuals, standing steadfast and alone on a great waving prairie. Heroes of our heritage, every one.

Did they know my Jesus? I believe they did. Not because of the evidence left on their headstone. But because of the evidence of their journey. Many items had to be left on the side of the trail west. The sideboard, piano, trunks of clothing, but not the Family Bible. That book would stand them up when nothing else could. It would be their children's primer until schools could be built. The messages of peace and strength, perseverance, suffering, and joy, all found in those pages. And my Jesus is found there too.

In my brief wandering and pondering of those who came not so long ago to a world far different from the one we now know, I am certain many knew my Jesus. For some the evidence is as simple as the phrase, 76 yrs, 6 mos, 17 dys inscribed on the headstone. Apparently, they learned, and right well, to number their days.

Where else would they who mourned find comfort? Where else would they find the courage and conviction to settle in a land seething with danger? How else do we account for so many churches be planted, some a hundred years or more ago, if they did not know my Jesus?

When we recall them, as so many did this past weekend, we remember with a smile their smile, their laugh, the strength in their handshake, the comfort of their embrace. But we do well also to remember the heritage that brought us here. Courage and steadfastness. Hard work, danger on every side. Times of want and deprivation no one in this generation has ever known, were a part of every day for some of them, and some died in that deprivation. Still they came, still they stayed, and still they leave a legacy of faith for those who will remember.

"Though I scatter them among the peoples, yet in distant lands they will remember me." Zechariah 10:9 (NIV)

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