It feels like I spend a good bit of time in the cemetery these days.  And, to be honest, I don’t mind it at all.

The town’s cemetery is only a block or so away from where the Lovely Lady and I have taken up residence for the last few years.  It’s convenient for our walks, with paved lanes crisscrossing the large greenspace and tall shade trees scattered throughout.

There are days when I speed through the property, scarcely glancing at the standing stones beside the byways I traverse.  I often think there are more important things to do at the end of the walk, rather than wasting precious moments while being reminded of the past.

Those days are becoming uncommon—my practice more days than not, to meander among the stones, marveling at how familiar are so many of the names I espy.

Does this seem a little ghoulish?  I suppose it might.  But if, as I do, you believe that so much of what makes up our present reality is contained in our past, it doesn’t seem nearly as odd.

Most days, as I leave the cemetery’s boundaries, there is a smile on my face—a smile put there by pleasant memories and gratitude for fellow travelers who have lived life well, and for those lives that give testimony to the power of their faith in God.

A few weeks ago, as the Lovely Lady and I were recovering from a tiring road trip to my home state, I received a message from a friend who has lived for some time in a big city, hours away.  I don’t know her as well as I do many I call friend, but it makes no difference.  She had a request of me.

She had been in town that weekend to pay what may be a last visit to the places she remembers from her childhood and to stop at the graves of her parents and grandparents. 

She had been disappointed in the condition of her grandparents’ stone, the years having covered it with lichen and grime.  Scraping a bit off, she realized it was a bigger task than she had time for before she had to depart. 

Her disappointment was significant.  She didn’t want to leave the stone in that state, but there was nothing more to be done.  Still, she knew it would bother her.

When her request came, it wasn’t for me to do any work, but simply to recommend someone who could see to the task of cleaning the stone for her.  I don’t know anyone who does that, but I was sure that, with a little research, I could put her in touch with a prospective organization that could accomplish it.

It had been a stressful few days for me, and surprisingly, I thought this might be something that could help me get my spirits back to normal.  I suggested it to the Lovely Lady, and she agreed it was a task within our capabilities.  Maybe.

The next afternoon, we made our way over to find the grave with buckets, brushes, and rags under our arms.  The stone was certainly in a sad state, but there seemed to be a strong possibility of success.  It took most of an hour, but we were pleased with the result, as was our friend.

More than that, the memories unleashed by thoughts of the folks whose names were on the stone we cleaned genuinely did bring us a refreshing in our spirits.

What’s that? 

Did we know the people?

No.  Not exactly.  But, as it happens, the old couple had been the previous residents of the little bungalow the Lovely Lady and I lived in when we first married.  It’s close to fifty years now since we moved into that little house.  But, thinking about the couple who had made a home there before we did brought to life many memories.

We talked as we worked, the ghosts of the past hovering about us.  Memories awakened.  Remembering the old wallpaper on the living room walls, resplendent in its silver and maroon designs.  The stark little bathroom with a naked hot water tank inside the door.  The joy of youthful marriage, of babies, of everyday life together.  Frozen water pipes in the winter.  Sweltering nights in summer.  Hardships.  Laughter with each other.  And tears.

Did I say there were ghosts?  I’m sure I must have.  But, I don’t believe in ghosts.

And, somehow, just like that, I hear the Cowardly Lion in Judy Garland’s “Wizard of Oz” chanting his frightened mantra.

“I do believe in spooks.  I do believe in spooks.  I do, I do, I do, I do, I do!”

I’ve written before that the ghosts I believe in are the memories of folks now absent—the memories, mind you—not actual spirits in the air around us.  Those memories live in our minds, often inspiring us to be better people than we now are, and sometimes reminding us to do better than the folks who came before, when their memory is more cautionary tale than inspirational anecdote.

Funny.  I chased a photograph into the cemetery a day ago.  And by that, I mean I couldn’t get the picture I wanted from the field I usually stand in to capture sunsets, so I hurried past a few hundred graves to stand and snap the photo I wanted.

As I looked at the pic later, I saw a beautiful, ethereal wispiness in the sky above.  And, just for a moment, I heard the voice of the Cowardly Lion again. 

But no.  Not spooks.  And not even ghosts.

Just our Creator and His delicate hand on the paintbrush, reminding me that He brings people and events to mind.

To encourage.

To give us a shove when we need it.

Some folks tell me they don’t think about the past, but simply look to the future. 

But, our Heavenly Father’s way is to inspire us to move forward while remembering His faithfulness in the past.  And to remind us of the pitfalls along the way by telling the cautionary tales.

It’s a beautiful picture, isn’t it? 

Well, yes; the photograph, but I’m actually thinking more about how our Creator understands us and meets us right where we are.  Not just to be maudlin and melodramatic, but to move us to the depths of our spirits.

We are emotional creatures, designed by our Creator to feel the joy and the pain, the disappointments and the mountaintop celebrations.

We gain strength from remembering past joys, as well as from giving thanks for struggles overcome and battles won. 

I think I’ll keep wandering past the resting places of my old friends’ earthly remains.  Perhaps I’ll stop occasionally and maybe even talk to their stones a bit. 

I’m not suggesting anyone else needs to do that.  But, I also hope you won’t call anyone to bring a straitjacket.  Not just yet.

Memories are good.  Good memories are even better.

Still, we keep looking to the future.  Home is somewhere up that way.

Up ahead.

 

“These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but…they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”
(from The Weight of Glory, by C.S. Lewis)

“But then I recall all you have done, O Lord;
    I remember your wonderful deeds of long ago.
They are constantly in my thoughts.
    I cannot stop thinking about your mighty works.”
(Psalm 77:11-12, NLT)

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2025. All Rights Reserved.