Bring out your dead

For some readers, this will come as no surprise; for others, my enchantment with cemeteries may seem a bit macabre.  Yes, cemeteries.  The place where we bury our dead.  I'm not exactly sure when my fascination started, but for as long as I can remember, cemeteries have held a mystic appeal to me.  Where else can you find such pure silence and serenity?  What better place to walk and reflect--not only about yourself but also about the very souls surrounding you?

As a child, I remember wandering through the above-ground cemeteries of New Orleans on vacation with my mom and visiting family plots throughout northeast Texas.  In high school, a dear friend of mine introduced me to Glenwood Cemetery in Houston, which continues to cast its spell on me even today.  In college, I conducted linguistics research in Central Texas cemeteries, looking at the assimilation of the German language in Texas.  Even on our honeymoon, I dragged Jelly through St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans to peek at the tomb of voodoo mistress Marie Louveau.  Fascination may even be an understatement.

Last week I stumbled across Reeves United Methodist Church in Pittsburg, Texas, where I introduced my children to the tranquil nature of cemeteries.

There I stood--forty miles from the nearest Starbucks--listening to a woodpecker in the tree above.  I imagined what Sundays must have been like at this little church in the late 1800's.  I could almost hear the laughter as I pictured kids running around after Sunday services while their parents shook hands and caught up on country gossip. The cemetery behind the church held just as much allure, but one thing continued to bother me.
  

It was the children.  There were so many.  Eight children from one family, six from another, three here, two there.  So many children.  What happened between 1900 and 1908? Smallpox? Yellow fever? Influenza? These are the questions I ask while I wander the crooked rows of crumbling stones. 

And these are the questions of my children:
"Is this where we go to die?"
"Where are their heads?"
"What happens if we dig them up?"
"Does God come here?"
"What does it mean to die?"
"Why are some graves outside the fence?" (Try explaining slavery and racism to a six-year-old.)
"Can I pick the daffodils?"

And I'm glad my kids are with me.  I'm glad they aren't afraid to stand here amid the grayness of death.  I'm glad they aren't afraid to ask questions about life, death, and daffodils.  I'm glad that the laughter of so many little children buried there echo in my three as they play amongst the stones.  Their souls must have been smiling...I know mine was.