Presby-Musings

When I was a kid my family would often travel on Memorial Day to the small community of Seibert, Colorado where my dad grew up. In a small cemetery on the outskirts of town, we would visit the graves of my dad's grandparents, and those of close friends and relatives.   I remember walking among the graves, reading the stones, and marveling at the small American flags that were placed by the those who had served in the military.   When my grandfather died when I was ten, those trips took on new meaning for all of us.  My grandmother would refresh the flowers on his grave, and we would all stand quietly as she did--each of us thinking our own thoughts, remembering him in our own way.   Years later, I officiated at my grandmother's funeral and would visit that cemetery for the first time as an adult.  I recall recognizing gravestones I had gazed at as a child, and for a moment it felt timeless, albeit the fresh dirt and clay from my grandmothe...

When I was a kid my family would often travel  on Memorial Day  to the small community of Seibert, Colorado where my dad grew up. In a small cemetery on the outskirts of town, we would visit the graves of my dad's grandparents, and those of close friends and relatives.   I remember walking among the graves, reading the stones, and marveling at the small American flags that were placed by the those who had served in the military.   When my grandfather died when I was ten, those trips took on new meaning for all of us.  My grandmother would refresh the flowers on his grave, and we would all stand quietly as she did--each of us thinking our own thoughts, remembering him in our own way.   Years later, I officiated at my grandmother's funeral and would visit that cemetery for the first time as an adult.  I recall recognizing gravestones I had gazed at as a child, and for a moment it felt timeless, albeit the fresh dirt and clay from my gr...