Yesterday evening Matt and I went for a walk to visit a a tiny, slightly overgrown cemetery about half a mile from our house. We first noticed it almost 3 years ago when we were looking at rentals in this area. One house we checked out was right up against it, and you could look down on the grassy headstones from the second-story windows.
It was a very peaceful visit, with a lot of history to soak up. There are several family plots there, double headstones marking husband and wives, some with special plaques declaring military service. One couple, birthdates in the mid-1800s, had their status as Citizens of the Republic of Texas proudly engraved beneath their names.
What broke my heart, though, were the infant and child plots. There were so many. Most of them dated in the 1940s, some as early as the '30s. Such tiny lives, gone so quickly. Some had dates of only a few days, some a few years, one with just a single year - 1945 - beneath the words "Our infant son." Not even a name.
I've been to one infant funeral in my life. I was a teenager, and a family in our small, home-based church lost a baby at birth. The casket was so small. The family, never even having the chance to look into his eyes or call his name, mourned so deeply.
No matter how tiny, life is precious.
No comments:
Post a Comment