I have been on a bit of a spiritual journey recently, one that I began because of some sadness that had crept into my life. I couldn’t identify the source of my sadness but I felt little things such as tearfulness, and, if one were to look in my eyes—you may recognize the look—and ask me how I am, I would begin to cry as I told them my reply: “I’m good.” But was I “good”? The tears were a sign that I was not good. I am getting better now, because I have discussed the situation with trusted friends and have explored my feelings and possible triggers.
Part of this ‘spiritual journey’, which by itself can be helpful to anyone with any sort of faith in a higher power, sounded funny to me because I call myself a Christian. As a Christian, shouldn’t I always be on a spiritual journey? “Yes”, I tell myself. But this is different. I have been feeling a bit disconnected from my higher power. That confuses me. Our sister church in another town held a women’s retreat and I dutifully signed up, agreed to room with some other women which, as the date neared, I felt may be a mistake given my present emotional state. I almost backed out. Not having a reasonable excuse without making up a story, which would be lying, I went. I shared with my carpool that I would be setting some boundaries for the weekend, seeking isolation for myself at times so I could sort out my heart.
We were in the forest, way up north, and there were still patches of snow on the ground. On my preselected day of isolation and/or solitude, I chose a road to walk that I knew would be all mine. I walked, prayed, and, when it occurred to me cougars could be in the area, I began to sing: loudly. After about a mile I began to cry. I cried hard. The tears flowed and flowed. I even ugly cried. No one was there to see me, thankfully.
Some important revelations came to me at about mile two. I needed to set boundaries. I needed to approach this retreat with expectations. This was not something I ever did and the usual result was that I served others and heard them sharing what they were learning, while I did no work for me. Not this time, though.
The idea of a mountaintop for me is a place to go where I can feel close to God, pray and sing and ugly-cry as loudly as I wish, because only the cougars and other predators would hear me. Maybe have water nearby. After the retreat I looked for my mountaintop. We have three mountains near my home but it’s snake season…you get the idea. We have rivers nearby as well but at this time of year they are quite busy with people. I forgot the search for a while, distracted with other things, that is until Sunday, May 28.
After a day of serving and worship with my church family I was exhausted and wanted solace and refreshment. No movies were of interest, I did not want to drink alcohol or eat food to soothe my desire. After a while it occurred to me: go to the cemetery. The beautiful grounds and fountain have brought me peace in the past. No one I know is buried there but it is quiet for sure.
Off I went. I took a chair and some books about death and dying and placed them behind me, praying that anyone seeing them may strike up a conversation. That didn’t happen and that’s okay.
What did happen is that I found my mountaintop!
I realized that my desire to serve and love others over myself has taken precedence in my life much too much. What started as a mix of Kathy and serving others became all about Kathy. And God. I sat for two hours. If you know me personally then you know I work my life in 90-minute increments. The only thing that drew me away was that I had to use a bathroom. I could have sat there till sunset.
The next day, Memorial Day (today), I returned to my mountaintop with the intent of making myself available for anyone looking to talk. I brought an extra chair for that purpose. When I approached my turnoff, the traffic was heavy near the cemetery. There was a line to get into it! I have never attended Memorial Day festivities so I had no idea how well-attended it would be.
A gubernatorial candidate would be speaking that day and the cemetery staff was giving away hot dogs. That’s when I wondered whether the traffic was made up of people looking to honor veterans, loved ones, a local political celebrity, or hot dogs. As I waited in the long line of cars to meander through this large cemetery I saw rows and rows of 6-foot-tall flag poles with our American flag flying from them. Yesterday there were small flags adorning 1,133 gravesites on the grounds. Today there were hundreds of the tall flags and a stage, decked out in red, white and blue, from which the candidate would speak to the crowd. That was not why I was there, so I kept driving—or crawling—along the path toward the exit, thinking I needed to return later in the day when it was not so busy.
I saw something that brought tears to my eyes
It was a picture I knew I could take with my camera but because it would have been an invasion of privacy and seemed completely inappropriate since I knew no one, I decided to write about it instead.
What I saw was a woman. She knelt on the grass, before a gravesite. She struggled to rise from her knees but raised her arm upward. She was not frail but she was quite thin. The younger woman with her, someone I guessed could be her granddaughter, took both her arms and helped the older woman to her feet. They did not embrace but they seemed to care for one another.
This interaction made me think about the way we can live our life today in the pursuit of mending broken relationships or at least to try in our own heart to forgive hurts, or perhaps to at least reach out to reestablish a connection with someone that we are no longer in relationship with. I don’t want to be at the gravesite of someone I loved but could never bring myself to actually reach out to or to seek repair when the person was alive.
As you spend today, Memorial Day, perhaps at a park, a river, a backyard, on the highway or in your home, I encourage you to look at the life you have today. Are your relationships intact? Are there some people, or is there even one person, you’d like to reconcile with, or at least forgive? Wouldn’t reconciliation or having forgiveness in your heart be so much better than to carry the burdens of old pain or dysfunction to your own grave?
I know this for certain: I have unsafe people in my life. I do not suggest we put ourselves in danger, whether mentally, physically or spiritually, in order to seek repair of an unhealthy or toxic relationship. On the contrary: I suggest you get to your mountaintop and shout, cry, write a letter, tear it up, crumble it into a ball; scream, cry some more. Do whatever you can do in that sacred space to clear your heart of the hurts and damage, so that you know you have done something cleansing for yourself. If therapy or professional help is necessary, pursue it—as soon as you can—so that you can get healing for yourself. Once the people we love are gone, they are gone. Only a marker on a grave or ashes in a box will remain.
Looks like I have some writing to do and some calls to make: While I’m Still Here.
A Special Note: Please be aware that I am not a therapist nor am I trained in pastoral counseling, nor am I nurse. What I write today comes from my heart and my desire to live out the rest of my days without unresolved feelings, shame, anger, angst, or unmet desires for reconciliation. I speak about dying and death to encourage you all to seek resolution, peace, healing and comfort while you are still alive.