Lengthening The Distance Between Two Points

The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  This is true in geometry.  This is true in commuting.  This is true for birds everywhere.  This is, however, not true – or at least it wasn’t for me – in one particular setting.  Tuesday afternoon, while visiting a cemetery, I learned the straight-line distance between two points is easily lengthened, if not by measured space, certainly by time. 

I attended a graveside memorial for a man who was a closer friend than a relative, though he was no less a relative as well.  Often those times in a cemetery near the gaping hole in the ground can be marked by confusion and complexity.  Emotions seethe and settle.  Long and distant stares are cast for the last time toward the lifeless body neatly concealed beneath layers of sewn satin and hewn wood. 

This time, on the other hand, was marked by the truth of Scripture proclaimed – that of course this man was not truly there beneath those layers at all.  He is unmistakably in God’s presence. 

This time was marked by the gift of white balloons; a greeting for grandpa released toward heaven from the deceased’s grand-daughter. 

This time was marked by the sharp and piercing crack of 21 shots wrung out in military honor. 

This time was marked by joy, albeit sober joy. 

After a time like this, lingering is usual.  It’s hard to leave…for many reasons.  If I’m honest, I’ve always wanted to stick around long enough to see a casket lowered into the ground.  I didn’t this time.  Instead I wandered toward my Dad’s gravestone, just a few paces and spaces away.  Placed there over 17 years ago, I imagine the body is less than recognizable by now.  I’ll recognize him in glory to be sure.

After several minutes I started toward my car.  I had parked some distance away as a courtesy.  A straight-lined path would get me there quickest.  Though the sun shone bright for much of the morning, the cool fall air wouldn’t allow the grass to dry up.  I soaked my shoes, being careful not to step on any of the many flat gravestones.  The thought of stepping on gravestones feels like trespassing to me.

I’d made it a good halfway, maneuvering the various stones from my periphery.  Then, for no reason at all, I looked down to notice a slightly raised stone; and it’s a good thing I did, for otherwise the stone would have seen to it I fall flat on my face.  I glanced around and realized many of the stones now were slightly raised, if not altogether mounted upright in their bulk.

A double take toward the one at my feet that nearly took me down, however, turned to sheer astonishment when I read the names: 

My Grandparents; my Mom's folks!

It has been about 20 years since Grandpa passed and the stone was set.  And though it has been only a few short years since Grandma passed, when one fails to visit a site like this often enough to distinguish it from the near identical sites all around it, they all blur together into anonymous rows and lines.  One easily forgets where exactly the site is.  I had forgotten.

I was now pleasantly reminded…of many things…

Thick recliners in the family room. 

Bacon and eggs on Saturday morning. 

Devotions from “Our Daily Bread” tucked away in a worn leather Bible. 

The smell of pipe tobacco (his, not hers). 

Baskets of balls of yarn throughout the house (hers, not his). 

A pear tree for climbing. 

The Pong game on a second generation color TV. 

Summer days with bikes in the drive way. 

I could go on…  My straight-line-shortened-distance had been disrupted and lengthened by a wonderful 3D moment – long, deep, & wide – of remembrance.

 

I allowed the moment to last as long as it wanted to.  You’re best to do that, you know.  I tucked away the lesson learned:

That I’ll always lengthen the distance if it means making the most of the moment.  

Then I continued on.  Now less interested in a straight line and more interested in noticing names.  These were family names of patriarchs and matriarchs from days long past. 

Many if not most buried side-by-side with their spouse. 

Many if not most sounding either clearly or vaguely familiar. 

Many if not most with children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren and so on, still alive…who perhaps have forgotten where to find the gravestone.   

At last, I arrived at my car, less than a straight line and more than a short distance later.  As I drove away I had the mortal thought, as do most folks at some point while visiting a cemetery.  Someday there’ll be a stone in the grass somewhere along a row and column.  And it’ll have my family name on it. 

I hope at some point it’ll have my wife’s name right next to mine. 

I hope the name sounds either clearly or vaguely familiar to someone. 

And I hope my stone is slightly raised so when my children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren and so on, come by they’ll pause for a long moment and lengthen the distance between two points as well…