The Cemetary
The children and I went to visit the cemetery last Friday. St. Joseph’s Cemetery is just five minutes west of our home. My grandparents and my husband’s grandparents were buried there many years ago (before we chose to live so close to it). This day we went to visit Ignatius’ buried remains in his newly dug grave.
Ignatius is the name we gave our baby who was not born. He or she (we say he just for the sake of being less confusing, but we never knew if the baby was male or female) was gestationally only 11-12 weeks old. It is amazing, however, how significantly one unborn life can affect the world. It is true that God has a plan for every life, even the unborn. Part of God’s plan for Ignatius has been that through the circumstances which surrounded his short life and (too early, for us) death, more respect and dignity have been given to the unborn. Specifically how is another story, for another day.
So, I decided pretty spontaneously Friday morning that I was ready to go to the cemetery. I found his death, and the way I found out about it particularly unpleasant, so I have to admit that I just wanted to get it over with and move on. But I cannot move on. I have been unable to do so so easily. I sense the spirit in my baby in the warm summer breeze, the laughter of my children (is that him joining in?), and circumstances which make it impossible for me to forget that this happened to us.
I had a miscarriage during my twelfth week of pregnancy. I discovered my child had died five weeks ago. The memory of this event, still fresh in my mind, is urging me to not forget.
This was my child. He was the product of the blessing and love I share with my husband. He was the sibling, and possible brother to my living children. He is missed. All were sad. We wanted to hold him.
All of this was adequately expressed at our first trip to the cemetary. So, now when we go, along with praying for our other relatives, we pray for Ignatius – in whatever relationship he is to us – child, brother, sister, friend.
To honor him and his life, however short it may be, is the best memorial to him.
The tears that fell upon his grave that Friday afternoon were received into his hands. I was blessed to be able to carry him, and hold him closer than anyone else whose tears have fallen there. Within my very self.
The freshly dug earth was apparent to us. His was the newest one there. Soon, it will appear like the rest of the graves. Pretty soon, new grass will have grown with time, the appearance will have aged and changed.
Changed, but not forgotten.
