I go home every year for Memorial Day. It is tradition. All of Acme converges onto one spot to commemorate those soldiers who have gone before us, and of course to stand by the graves of our loved ones buried there. My Father is one of the proud men who marches with his fellow American Legionnaires in what is undoubtedly the shortest Memorial Day service in existence. Its a good four minutes long. But, its tradition. The young, the old and everyone in between can be found in one place at 11am, for those four sweet minutes.
This year I was home for the long weekend, not just the day. There is a lot to do at home this time of year. It is the beginning of the camping season so there is grass to mow, brush to cut, wood to stack, weeds to pull and of course the cemetary to prepare. I have a few beloveds there, and my Mom always makes sure they are well looked after. This year I went with her, and I am so thankful that I did.
If you know me at all reader, then you know that I have many tears inside of me. But I have come to realize that most of those are not really mine. I cry in support of another crier, I feel deep empathy for those I hear, see or read of having pain in their lives-and I cry for them. It is simply something I have no control over, and when I do try to fight those tears back it is to no avail. I have cried for me before-obviously. Those moments seem to be when something very raw is exposed, when God prompts someone to keep asking me, despite my resistance. Then they must patiently wait while I find the courage to answer in truth.
God has recently challenged this inablity to be transparent and to openly share who I am with even my close friends. He has opened my eyes to the pride that keeps me from sharing my sin. He has opened my eyes to how I hurt others by not trusting them as they have earned. And He has showed me how I have wasted what could have been precious moments of friendship and instead I have hidden behind a wall of fear. As I seek to understand how I am to go forward I know that I need to look back as well, and allow the Lord to heal the little girl who put up the walls in the first place.
In preperation for Memorial Day Mom and I arrived at the cemetary loaded with garden tools and flowers. We pulled weeds, we put in new soil, pruned a tree or two, and planted flowers to honor those buried there. Grandpa, little cousin Kaitlyn, and Auntie Kaye. All three taken home, and away from us, within a year of each other.
Auntie Kaye was my Mom's identical twin. She died of cancer when they were 39 years old. I was in 6th grade. It happened very quickly. Three months. I don't remember a lot from that time. I remember going to the hospital to see Auntie Kaye one day like normal. Then Tiffany(my sister) and I went to my Uncle Rick and Aunt Kathy's house and Mom went back to the hospital. When she came to get us one look at my Mom's face and I knew, Auntie Kaye was gone. I don't know if my parents sat us down and talked about death. I believed she was in heaven, but I don't remember really fully understanding. I know I cried, I knew things had changed forever and that my childhood innocence had been shaken to the core.
That afternoon up at the cemetary I saw a glimpse of the pain and suffering that my Mom had protected me from. I don't know if the protection was intentional, maybe it was survival. I can imagine that her sorrow was so great that there was many times she was afraid if she shared her tears with us, if she shared her pain she would not be able to stop those tears from falling. I feel that way sometimes too. This day my Mom shared with me that after Auntie Kaye died she would come up to this silent place and care for the sacred ground where my Aunt was buried. There were times when she would find bird poop on the gravestone and she would scrub it off while she yelled and screamed at the birds. Shouting at them "how dare you touch Kaye's stone, how dare you!" Crying and falling to her knees, angry that those birds did not realize they were out of bounds, that this place was off limits. I think this was her way of yelling at God.
My heart broke for my Mom. As children we are only interested in what is directly impacting us. I was no different. I don't remember wondering about how my Mom must have been feeling during this time. I don't remember being "extra good" to help her out. We all just shut down, and shut out the pain, and with that the emotional connection we had to each other.
Mom and I cleaned off the bird poop on the stones together. Then we went home. I have a feeling that the Lord is starting to break down the walls I built so many years ago.
