The last time my mother came to this church alive she was well into dementia and unsure of her surroundings. “Something bad has happened,” she repeated again and again as we laid her brother to rest. “Something terrible.” She looked worried and scared until the tree that sheltered the graves of her father, mother, and grandmother - and now her brother - caught her eye. She opened her arms wide and grinned. “Oh, look at this!” she said as her hands outlined both the tree and the sky beyond. “How beautiful! I could just stay here forever!” We laughed, how could we not? “That’s good Mom,” we assured her, knowing that someday soon enough she would do just that.
I visited, this week, the tranquil graveyard where my mother and then my father are buried. I thanked them again for all they have given me in their lives and, still, beyond to now. And then I turned and thanked the tree whose roots have surely wound around and now hold tight my parents resting still below the surface. Forever. Beautiful.