Lilies at the Cemetery

This is a special week, a wonderful week. This week we get to celebrate Easter, but getting there requires we first traverse the darker side of days preceding the open grave.

Reflection.

Remorse.

Repentance.

We are driven to our knees by the fact that OUR sin placed our Lord at Golgatha and hammered the spikes into His hands and feet. There is no denying the depth of our depravity... the certainty of our guilt.

Yet...

Yet, this is also the week we get to lift hands heavenward, sing, and rejoice that Christ has risen from the dead. Grave conquered. Guilt absolved. Sins forgiven, separated from us as far as the East from the West.

Forgiveness.

Salvation.

Eternal life.

There is no denying the enormity of His grace... the magnitude of His love.

This is a week of high emotions. It is a week of both palm branches and pieces of silver, of Passover cups and bitter wine, of loyalty and betrayal, of vows made and promises broken. It is also a week of life and death.

Of death... and life.

This week also brings ME to a familiar place, a place I visit now and again, a place I frequent more often in times when emotions run high... like this week. There is a poignancy in visiting the cemetery this time of year. Nowhere do I see the effects of sin more than in this place. I am reminded of those wages with every headstone I pass.

Yet...

Yet, this is also the place of Easter lilies. I do believe the sheer number rivals that of any Christian church on Easter Sunday. That's because the sting of the words "the wages of sin is death" has a second truth, a balm... a cure for all who believe: "...but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

There was a time I hated going to the graveyard. I went only because my mom asked me to or because my dad wanted to place flowers at the family plot in Lockhart and he was no longer able to drive himself. I went because I had to... not because I wanted to.

Things change.

Things changed for me when my mom died. I missed her like I had never missed anyone before in my life. She and I talked on the phone every day. I often saw her daily besides. We spent as much time together as I did with any of my friends... actually lots more. I missed her laugh. I missed her advice. I missed her words of encouragement. I missed her love.

Spending time at the cemetery sort of filled that gap for me for a while. I'd talk to her, tell her about life and about what was happening with the family I'm sure she would have loved to have seen. Oh, I knew she wasn't there. She had much bigger, better things to do in heaven, but while she was rejoicing with all the company of saints who went before, I was still reeling from grief, and being there, in that place, somehow helped.

Four short years later, my dad joined her. I was a fifty year old orphan, and though I had come to terms with the loss of my mother, my dad's death hit anew. All the old feelings came flooding back.

I began taking flowers to the graveside to mark special occassions, Mom's and Dad's birthdays, Mother's Day, Father's Day... poinsettias at Christmas... a handful of flowers from my yard just because I was missing them terribly.

Those visits always left me with more of a feeling of loss than gain. It seems I spent more time looking backward to what WAS than looking ahead to what IS for them right now and what WILL BE for me one day.

I have a little ritual I do each time before I leave. I kneel down and pat the ground twice for each of my parents while I say, "Love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. I miss you guys."

For much of the world, grief is one directional. It looks back. There is no forward. There is no tomorrow. There is no cure. Grief for Christians is different. Though it too begins by looking back, it doesn't end there. It has a second direction... upward. We grieve, but we do not grieve without hope.

This is why I find myself at this place, this place of two directions this Holy Week. I find myself here because this is the place where the rubber meets the road. This is the place of truth... and promise. This is the sanctuary where lilies are strewn, for this is the place where death meets life for all who believe.

An Easter lily graces my parents' headstone today. Unlike the other flowers I have placed there in loving memory, this flower says so much more. It testifies to both the cross and to the open grave. It is a symbol of victory.

There are no tears today. I still miss my mom and dad like crazy, but thanks to Jesus and to what He both endured and overcame that first Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I know where they are... and where I'm headed.

This time as I get ready to leave, my little ritual changes in both direction and focus. I bend down and pat the ground twice for my mom and twice for my dad as I say these words: "I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad. Happy Easter... and...

I'll see you soon."

The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed, Hallelujah!!