“Hey kids! How about we head to the cemetery for a gravestone cleaning day?” Well, that’s not exactly how I phrased it, but it’s the gist of it. This past Sunday, I dashed into Target, weaving past fellow shoppers grabbing their morning coffee before heading to church. I made my way to the cleaning supplies aisle, where I picked up two buckets, three scrub brushes, and a pair of rubber gloves. Sure, I could have prepared ahead of time, but let’s face it: my intentions are good, but my planning often lags behind.
I’ve always been drawn to cemeteries—not because I’m fascinated by death or the macabre, but because I appreciate the stories behind the stones, the names etched in time, and the history they represent. It’s as if cemeteries are unique neighborhoods filled with lives once lived.
When I was six, my grandmother passed away, and I remained at home while the family attended her burial. My only memory from that day is a large fruit basket arriving at our house, adorned with a shiny bow—death, to me then, translated to gifts of fruit.
As a child, I even believed my grandmother’s spirit visited me at night, lingering at the foot of my bed. In her honor, I named my daughter after her.
During high school, I often babysat for a family whose backyard bordered a Jewish cemetery. The yard was tiny, bordered by low boxwoods, with headstones lining the perimeter. The old house creaked at night, sending shivers down my spine. I’d call my mom to come and check the place out more than once. Eventually, I found solace in the thought that the graves belonged to fellow Jews, and surely, the spirits wouldn’t haunt one of their own.
In my family, discussions about death were often avoided, which only heightened my apprehension. Thus, I made a conscious effort to engage my children in open conversations about death. I don’t dwell on it obsessively, but I also don’t shy away from the topic. Each faith has its own perspective on death and the afterlife, and each person carries their unique beliefs as well. When I discuss death with my kids, we explore various beliefs, and I’ve noticed my daughter, who has always seemed like an old soul, currently leans towards the idea of reincarnation.
Ultimately, I believe we cannot truly know what happens after we die. However, if we lead fulfilling lives, we needn’t worry about the hereafter. A wise friend from middle school once told me, “Live while you live, then die and be done with it.” This philosophy resonates strongly with me.
I don’t fret over what happens to me post-death. Should I be buried? Cremated? Opt for a natural burial? Perhaps my funeral should feature a flash mob performing my favorite kickboxing routine? All intriguing options, but ultimately irrelevant since I won’t be around to care.
During a trip to Berlin in the early 2000s, my husband and I visited a vast Jewish cemetery in East Berlin. Many graves had shifted and settled over time, cloaked in forests, with headstones seemingly untouched for decades. Lichens and moss intertwined with the stones, filling in the gaps of names and dates—a testament to the passage of time.
We encountered an impressive family tomb, the granite slab cracked down the middle, with a tree growing from the rift. The family name? Baum—German for tree. It was both eerie and beautiful, a perfect metaphor for life’s unpredictability.
Equipped with our buckets, brushes, and gloves, we arrived at the cemetery to join my children’s Sunday school class. The rabbi spoke about the mitzvah of caring for loved ones’ graves during the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
Though my family has no graves in this town, we accompanied others to their loved ones’ markers, learning about their relatives’ stories. My daughter gravitated towards a stone she felt needed attention, while my son began with a headstone belonging to his Hebrew tutor.
It was meaningful work—uncovering names and dates, restoring legibility to the stones. Do the deceased know we’re honoring them? I can’t say for sure, but perhaps it’s comforting for those who come searching for their ancestors, knowing someone cared for the resting place of their loved ones.
Death, memory, and mourning are fragmented experiences, each of us carrying within us a universe of memories. Caring for others—both in life and in death—helps us piece together the shards of meaning and history. It’s a beautiful tapestry of shared love and remembrance.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s experiences with death, cemeteries, and the importance of discussing these topics openly with children. It emphasizes the significance of honoring memories and caring for the resting places of loved ones, while also exploring personal beliefs about life and the afterlife.