Conversing with Grief - Thank You Mt. Zion UMC
When I walk…I walk fast. Not speed walker fast, but fast enough that some of my friends refuse to walk with me. “Slow down!” they say. Really? What’s the use of walking, if you don’t walk fast? I mean, burning calories is the goal, right? So when I woke up this morning, opened the blinds, and witnessed the type of weather that must have sparked James Taylor’s “Going to Carolina,” I knew I had to get outside and go for it!
Now I’m a creature of habit. Going out to eat? Unless it’s a new restaurant, I’ll get the exact same thing I’ve always gotten. Why leave food to chance when you know what’s good? So my walking path? Pretty much always the same. I know what works and if I’ll get enough steps in on the journey. But this day, upon my feet hitting the pavement, I felt drawn to take a different route - over and around Mt. Zion United Methodist Church. Why? Not sure really, other than for some crazy reason, it had been the subject of many of my dreams these past couple of months.
As the beautiful church bells gonged the half hour (I swear they evoke peace), I walked up behind the log cabin (the location of my wedding rehearsal dinner), passed the playground (where life-long friends were made and I fell off the monkey bars, literally knocking the life out of me during VBS), the front lawn (Oh, how I loved the Easter egg hunts and Homecoming covered dish lunches!), by the sanctuary (where I attended church and was married), and the educational building (the place of kindergarten, Sunday School, and my brief employment in a day care when I was 17). The memories began to overwhelm me, taking me back decades.
However, as I continued, I knew a decision lie ahead – would I be brave and walk through the cemetary? You may think, “Seriously, Cammie, what’s the big deal?” Well…it hadn’t always been that way. As a child, I used to love to walk through and read all the names and dates on the tombstones, envisioning the lives and stories the slabs of granite represented. Little did I know, however, that they would someday contain part of my story. For this very reason, these past twenty years, I had quite successfully avoided this place.
However this day…I knew God was asking me to do that very thing.
Cautiously walking ahead, I think I prayed something like, “Dear God…PLEEEEEEAAAASE don’t let me have a total breakdown in this place! I really didn’t want to be known as the crazy lady who throws herself on graves. And besides…crying makes my eyes itch big time!" But I threw caution to the wind and kept walking.
Could I remember where they were - the plots containing the bodies of my first child, Charles Bascom, born at only 27 weeks, and my dad, who was taken way too early at the age of only 59 - my two most painful losses? And then there was little Joshua Goforth, the child of my lifelong friend, Pattie, who was tragically taken away at the age of five - he was there as well. “This just might be too much,” I said to myself. “”I mean, I’ve avoided visiting for 20+ years…what’s a few more?"
As I looked for these precious graves, I passed tombstones with familiar names such as Mayhew, Cook, Sherrill, Deaton, Knox, Wally, Readling, and Cashion – pillars of our then small Cornelius town. So many stories.
It didn’t take long to find little Charles' grave nestled near that of my dad, Coy Bascom Newton and Joshua Goforth. Still looking the same, just a little weathered. A bit of moss on top, and weeds covering the corners.
I swear…as God as my witness…time slowed down. I bravely decided not to rush…to linger even. Grief floated through both my mind and my heart, memories of not only losing those I love, but grief for the past - lost friendships, good times, hard times, celebrations, opportunities…even bad choices and decisions made in my youth (trust me, there were many!). I also found myself grieving the years in which I’d left this beautiful town for California and Florida. Why had we done that? Was it worth it?
It was then that I realized I was having a conversation with Grief – not yelling at it, not denying it, not being passive-aggressive in regards to its existence, but sitting and experiencing the beauty of this much denied and avoided emotion. As if on a movie screen, I began to see the opportunities birthed, the transformations, the wisdom that resulted, and the changes that had taken place in my life- all as a result of Grief.
Grief showed me the bad decisions and mistakes, which I had previously allowed to create shame, had actually birthed wisdom, empathy, kindness and understanding. Deaths of those I loved had transpired into appreciation, sympathy, inspiration, and gratefulness. Years that had passed had made me who I am today – someone who loves and honors others, as well as God Himself, deeply, authentically, and with vulnerability. Without the pain, I daresay none of this would be possible.
My heart flooded, my eyes teared (which I am most often too vain to let flow, due to imposing messing up of makeup), and a settledness came over me. My heart was overwhelmed with extreme gratefulness to be back in my most beloved Cornelius, my hometown. Thank you, Grief. I've truly loved this encounter.
Wandering back home, I found myself walking slower, more intentional, as I didn’t want to break the spell of my conversation with Grief. Why had I avoided it all these years? Denied it even?
It was then that the noon church bells rang – pouring out hymns of “Onward Christian Soldier” and “Holy, Holy, Holy,” concluding my chat with Grief. For the first time, maybe ever, I found myself no longer afraid of Grief, but rather thankful for the growth and investment it had made in my life – vowing to never run from him again.
