“Alright, kids! Who’s ready to clean some gravestones?” Okay, maybe that wasn’t my exact phrasing, but it was close enough.
This past Sunday, I found myself rushing into Target, weaving past folks grabbing their morning coffee before church. I headed straight to the cleaning aisle to grab a couple of buckets, three scrub brushes, and rubber gloves. Sure, I could have prepared in advance, but let’s be honest: my intentions are always good, but my organization skills? Not so much.
I have a deep appreciation for cemeteries—not because I revel in death or anything creepy, but because of the stones, the names, and the untold stories they hold. It’s fascinating to think of cemeteries as neighborhoods. Their residents just happen to be no longer living.
I lost my grandmother when I was just six years old. While the family attended her burial, I stayed at home and remember the large fruit basket that arrived, adorned with a gleaming bow. For me, death translated to fruit baskets.
As a child, I felt my grandma’s spirit visiting me at night. It was comforting to imagine her sitting on the edge of my bed, and I even named my daughter after her.
During high school, I babysat for a family whose home shared a backyard with a Jewish cemetery. Their yard was tiny, bordered by low boxwoods and then… headstones. The house creaked at night, which terrified me. I would often call my mom to come check things out. Eventually, I found solace in the thought that since the cemetery was Jewish and I was too, surely the spirits wouldn’t haunt one of their own.
In my household, death wasn’t a frequent topic, which I later realized made it even scarier. I made a conscious effort to be open with my kids about death—not glorifying it, but also not shying away from discussions.
Every culture has its own beliefs surrounding death and the afterlife, and opinions vary widely. When I discuss death with my children, we explore different perspectives. My daughter seems to lean toward reincarnation, which fits her old-soul vibe.
Ultimately, I believe we can’t know what happens after death. However, if we lead good lives, we can trust that we’ll be okay in whatever comes next. A wise friend once said, “Live while you live, then die and be done with it.” This sentiment resonates with me.
I’m not overly concerned about my own afterlife. (Should I opt for burial, cremation, or even a natural burial? Would a flash mob tribute to my favorite workout routine be too much? Or maybe everyone should belt out “When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet for life?”) In the end, it won’t matter because I’ll be gone, and that’s perfectly fine.
A few years ago, my husband and I made a pilgrimage to a Jewish cemetery in East Berlin. It was vast, with many headstones covered in moss and lichens, telling the story of time’s passage. We were struck by one family tomb; a large granite slab was cracked down the middle, and a tree was growing through it. The family name? Baum, which means “tree” in German. It was a hauntingly beautiful moment, a perfect illustration of life and death intertwined.
Equipped with our buckets, brushes, and gloves, we arrived at the cemetery to meet my kids’ Sunday school group. The rabbi spoke about the mitzvah of caring for graves during the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.
Though my family doesn’t have graves here, some in our group did, and they shared stories about their loved ones. My daughter eagerly tackled a stone she had noticed, while my son began with one belonging to his Hebrew tutor.
It was fulfilling work, revealing names and dates, making them legible once more. Do the deceased care that we’re doing this? Probably not. But perhaps it’s meaningful for someone who comes back to find their loved one’s grave cared for.
Death, mourning, and memory can shatter into countless pieces, each of us carrying within us fragments of history, love, and light. Caring for others—whether in life or death—helps to gather those pieces. Together, we create a tapestry of meaning and connection.
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In summary, my experience at the cemetery was not just about cleaning gravestones; it was about connecting with the past and helping my children understand the delicate balance of life, death, and memory.
Keyphrase: cemetery reflections
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