Mingling now with eternal neighbors

It was a small story tucked into the news this month, but it caught my attention. In Weld, Maine, the sexton of the Mountain View Cemetery hosts an annual reception for those who have purchased plots there. The idea is as simple as it is unusual: prospective “neighbors in the hereafter” gather at his home for an evening of introduction and conversation. They share food, swap stories, and talk candidly about the inevitability of death. Some are still years away from facing it, but they approach the subject with a kind of New England practicality—celebrating life while preparing for its end. One woman joked that her plaque would read “dirt to dirt.” Others discussed unconventional burial plans, as the cemetery allows fishing tackle boxes or cast-iron kettles in place of traditional coffins.

At first, I thought it was a delightful bit of Yankee eccentricity. A party for the future residents of a graveyard is not something one expects to hear about on the radio. But the longer I considered it, the more familiar it seemed. In Nebraska, we don’t wait for death to meet our eternal neighbors. Many do it every weekend. It’s called “church.”

The ritual is so ordinary that it’s easy to miss its significance. In many Nebraska communities, the church and the cemetery sit side by side, reminders that faith and mortality have always been linked. When neighbors gather on Sunday morning—whether in white-frame sanctuaries, red-brick cathedrals, or former retail storefronts—they are assembling not only with fellow believers but with those who will one day rest beside them in the churchyard. The certainty of our own mortality is never far away, acknowledged in the prayers and hymns that mingle with choir practice, potluck planning and talk of next week’s bake sale. It is much the same spirit as that Maine cemetery reception—just without the boxed wine and charcuterie.

A recent study by the Pew Research Center offers some numbers to test our impressions. Nebraska sits squarely in the middle of the pack when it comes to religion. As a state, we rank 24th nationally in the share of residents who consider themselves “highly religious”—30 percent, just about average. We are 25th in the percentage who say religion is important, at 37 percent. We are tied with Georgia and Texas for 19th place in attendance, with 38 percent saying they go to services at least monthly. Yet when it comes to prayer, we slip to 34th, with only 39 percent reporting that daily prayer is part of their lives.

What do we make of that mix? It suggests that Nebraskans, like their neighbors across the country, are not outliers but representatives of a broader American median. Our churches are well attended, but our private devotion is less intense. Faith holds an important place, but perhaps not a commanding one. It may not be the force it was in earlier generations, but it still provides a gathering point, a place where questions of life and death can be faced in community rather than isolation.

The reception in Maine reminds us that mortality is not a subject to be hidden away, but a reality to be faced with honesty and even humor. The Nebraska numbers remind us that appearances can mislead; while we might picture ourselves as especially devout, in fact, we are a people right in the middle of the pack. There are worse places to be. After all, when the questions are as old as life itself, sometimes the most important thing is simply to keep showing up—whether in the pews or, someday, in the cemetery.