A Quiet Place

The local cemetery here in Oxford has become a place of respite in recent days and months. You might think this a bit odd; perhaps a degree of crazy. Fear not as it is not the attraction of death that enthrals, rather it is a quiet place.

There are no concerns lain alongside these markers - no concerns of the busyness of the day, the tasks left undone, the need to solve the most recent 'critical' issue, emails waiting for a response, or some miscommunication left unresolved and a relationship in need of mending. It's quiet and peaceful. The concerns of the day drift away with the cool fall breeze and are drowned in the reflecting pool of lives once lived.

There are many people buried here - easily five hundred if not many more. Some headstones date back to the 1880s. Other headstones are quite recent. They all tell a story, often brief and often poignant. No headstone adequately tells of the life marked therein; the brief words can only provide the fragrant essence of the life once lived.

The peace of this place provides a fertile ground for reflection and distilling of thoughts lost to the concerns of the day. It takes little effort for the soul to then shift to the brief reminders of these lives once lived. What must these people have been like? These fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, children.

Many reminders of these lives communicate a simple message of 'dearly loved' and peace now found in 'rest'. Some reminders display an eloquent word painting of the life once lived and the memories now held. Yet, many of the stones displaying such reminders are fading, cracking, failing.

All that is left of these lives are a name, a brief epitaph, a legacy, and the memories of that person now passed. There is nothing of this world that is now held closely by that man or woman buried there. The length of the years once lived becomes a line or two of how the person is remembered in the memories of those whom loved them.

The sadness of the quiet place is captured not in the loss of the person, as death is a requirement for us all. Rather, the sadness rests with the understanding that some lives buried here may not have navigated to those dreams that gave wind to their sails. This only serves to focus personal intentions, pursuits, and futures. Fear of death is lost when the reality of living life to the Full is understood.

I've been searching for a particular epitaph that caught my eye one recent crisp, fall morning. The words were elegant and described a life truly lived. I haven't been able to find that epitaph again, nor can I recall the words to repeat it. It may remain lost amongst the stones.

This isn't such a recent endeavor - walking the cemetery. I like to think partial fault of this activity is that of an equally reflective friend, yet I must admit that it is an interest now fully taken by myself. The curiosity begins with the lives recorded on the stones, brimming forth with the wonderment of what might my stone read upon the time of passing... The focus of a life is only realized in the reflection upon death.

And, so, I sit here and write and consider my life now being lived. What will be engraved on my stone? I don't fear death, I fear not truly living. Yet what might that mean? 'Tis perhaps something different for you and me. What might you consider living?

Death is simply a door to pass through. I believe at the very core of my being there is such a thing of life through that doorway. However, the decision to open that door must be made prior to stepping through it.


"In His will is our peace found"