It’s Halloween night. Time to appease with candy treats the tricksters who appear at my door or look into my windows. Some brave souls in my village choose to climb up the hill to Grace Church in hopes of seeing a ghost or two. It’s said that on Halloween night, if you’re lucky, you’ll see a white apparition move among the
gravestones.
I’m tempted to go up there myself tonight. I used to be scared of ghosts, but not anymore. When Caroline Elizabeth died almost nineteen years ago, the spirit world became a friendly place. She’s buried there at Grace Church. I will be, too.
The graveyard sits beside the church overlooking land that extends forever to the east. East of Eden is what I like to call that view, because the church is Eden, or home, to me. It’s a place where my ancestors gathered in life and now gather as bones and dust. It’s a place where souls were joined and separated in celebrations called weddings and funerals. It’s a place with a spiritual sense of being.
The church could be narrowed down to four walls and twenty hard pews. Should it burn to the ground, as it did around 1900, it would still be a place of Grace – a hallowed ground where Indians once trod. When I am long gone, those walls will crumble away. The woods surrounding the structure will enter via creeping vines and gradually reclaim the timbers and woodwork my great-grandfather helped design and carve.
I wonder if my daughter and I will watch on a Halloween night as young people creep into the overgrown churchyard. Maybe they will catch a glimpse of us as we look toward the east.
I hope they won’t be too scared. Perhaps one sensitive soul will feel our peace and appreciate the beauty of life and its ever-turning wheel of time. She might remain for a moment realizing she stands on cherished soil before she runs away into the night.
I imagine Caroline Elizabeth and I will smile at the girl’s brief insight before flying East of Eden into a golden light we call Home. We’ll be full of life, wonder and love. Together always. Funny thing about death, it doesn’t last forever.
Farther Along 
19 years… I am a mere 81 weeks into my journey without my child. 19 years – What a long time to live without one’s child. I pray that my life will not last that long….Lovely post thank you.
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The years go by so quickly. When I started out I certainly couldn’t imagine living this long without my daughter. I suppose I keep her so close to my heart, that she remains very much alive within me; I just can’t see her. I’ve been blessed with people who have seen her appear in their time of need. Once she appeared behind me to a young girl who “doesn’t believe in such things.” I only wish I could see her, too! All we can do is live one day at a time.
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Perception of a cemetery changes after someone you love has died. The year Jason died, I wrote this in my journal:
“I look at cemeteries differently now. I used to be distanced from them. A cemetery was a place I looked at and felt sorry for the poor people who were burying a loved one or visiting a gravesite. Now I feel compassion, empathy, and a kinship to the people who are there…which is entirely different than “feeling sorry for.” Now that person at the cemetery isn’t some disconnected entity…it’s me, visiting the graves of my son and his [best] friend…”
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thanks for this new walk at Grace Church. Having been there with you recently, I can see all the spirits you describe and I celebrate your joyful imaginations.
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Thanks Betsy. We enjoyed many imaginings as we wandered around that cemetery, trying to piece together the lives of families long gone. And though it was a somber outing, to visit Caroline Elizabeth’s grave, we also laughed and rejoiced.
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