Love, unlike flowers, never dies
I must be a maverick for last weekend as I passed by a couple cemeteries and saw crowds going and coming with arms full of flowers, and graves covered with them, I kept saying to myself, “Why? Why? Why? Haven’t they read their Bible?”
It isn’t because I didn’t and still do love those whose bodies are buried there, either, for few days go by without me thinking of them in some way. Often my husband, for as I long have actually been able to see him sitting at the table, or reading in ‘his’ chair, I now see him in his descendents, and dear Gram, because I use so many of her ‘things’. Others less often, and oddly, though Uncle Vester was not physically long with me, his influence and thoughts, deep, good, and strong, have remained.
Nope, it’s not lack of love, but after fighting traffic for several years, carrying wilting flowers, vases, etc. etc. etc. and in and out of different cemeteries, I began to think. And when I think . . . I act upon my words, and I usually write about it, too.
If I believe what the Good Book, our Bible, as well as all other spiritual teachings I’ve delved into, say, I must believe the words told to those who sought the body of Jesus, “Why look here? He is not here.”
Our loved ones are not under the smooth green sod. I just happen to believe there is a part of me that has nothing at all to do with the skin, bones and flesh I walk around in. Those just happen to be the covering . . . the outer coat. .. which the Real Me uses. And so, when we die, then the Real part of all of us is not buried. That Real part goes on into what James Barrie, of Peter Pan fame, called “The Great Experience.”
So, why, I asked myself, do I take flowers to where they are not? Well, I finally decided it was probably to satisfy some need within me, or maybe , and this I settled upon, is just because everyone else does. And most of us hate to be too different.
My loved ones are not there. Oh, I ‘m not wise enough to know where they are, although I know they’re often near by me. (But that’s another story) I just happen to believe they’re not in those deep graves that I stood beside and watched bewilderedly as they were gently lowered.
My loved ones are not in some cemetery to receive flowers, and I’ve come to believe that, like Valentine’s day, Mother’s day, Christmas, et al, are just big Sales pitches.
Our loved ones receive bouquets daily from my thoughts, for that is how I remember them. Gram, who was a Mother to me, is a most happy remembering. I have scattered her dishes and furniture among the family and it gives me joy to see them used, and know the pleasure that would be hers to see family that she never lived to see, using them.
That, to me is worth dozens of roses left to wilt out on some slab of stone that happens to bear her name.
And I remember AW. Oh yes, I remember him, though he died far too young, and so has been so long gone. We had our sad times, I know, I know. But I also know that he loved me and that my sons came from him and that he loved them, too. And my first thoughts when Grandchildren arrived and matured and Great grandchildren came into the family, were how much he would have loved to experience all this with me.
No, my loved ones are not buried. They are free. Free in some marvelous way I can not yet realize, and so on Memorial Day weekends I make a point of doing something that I know all those people would have loved being a part of, and that they would rejoice with me, knowing that my life, too, goes on happily and that family genes are strong.
Now this may not be your way, but it’s mine. And to me, the thoughts of remembrance that we send through the days of our lives are the real bouquets. ‘Flowers’ that can not fade in the sun and or wilt no matter how many years have passed since I physically held them in my arms. See? Love, unlike flowers, never dies.