The Pull To The Cemetary

As I mentioned before, I am not one to visit graves.  But there has been a pull since my mother’s burial to go to hers.  Today on my way out-of-town I was near the cemetary she is buried in.  I went.

Her grave only a tad over a week old was like most.  Headstone in place, dirt piled up where she was laid to rest, and a vase of fresh flowers blown over by the wind.  I found myself filling the vase with bottled water and placing it in a more secure spot.  Then I didn’t care for the dead casket spray still upon the dirt where she lay, I put in my vehicle so as to dispose of it.  I felt the urge to “care” for the grave although I know the ones laying there are in a deep sleep awaiting the return of Jesus Christ.

No tears fell today, just thoughts in my mind on the drive home alone.  The thoughts of how my mother did what she had to do in life, whether she enjoyed it or not.  That she pushed through many times, so that is what I must do now.  So many things lay upon my mind currently, not only my grief.

The image of the early morning before the day she died came to me as well.  The one where I woke and felt an urgency to see her that morning.  There was just a pull to be in her room with her.  So I made my way over alone to her ICU room.

The male night nurse very kind, brought me up to date on mother’s status, offering me coffee or something else.  I turned him down and greeted mother.  No response from her as she lay in the bed, ventilator in place, just machines running to fill what would have been quietness.  Holding her hand, kissing her forehead, then making my way to just sit.  Sit in the dark corner of her room writing.

Even though I wasn’t doing anything for her, I felt I was caring for her by being there. It made me feel better to sit in that room, although difficult to watch her in that state.   I felt I was doing something verses doing nothing.

Perhaps today at the grave it was the same thing.   An act of caring, by means of cleaning up the grave.  Maybe it was just me trying to do something to mask the bout of grief that lay in me.



Grace is a gift,



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