I've always been drawn to old cemeteries.
They seem so forgotten. Very few fresh flowers or flags, any evidence that someone who still walks this earth remembers...
But they're saturated with history. Most of these graves date back over a century.
Yesterday I walked through the old cemetery alone, looking for answers.
How did mothers in the 1800's deal with the loss of a child? It looks like a common situation back in those days. Did they just accept it gracefully as a fact of life? Par for the course? Did they scream and cry? Did they feel deserted by God?
Can you almost see the divots this mother's knees left in front of her babies' headstones? The flowers she put on the cold marble every year, every season? Did she accept her burden better than I am?
The cemetery remains peacefully secretive. And I rejoice for those mothers who have joined with their babies in heaven.