. . . we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

      She must have heard those words a thousand times at Mass over the years and hadn’t given them a second thought.  But now they leap out at her from the inscription on this gravestone as she walks through the cemetery.

      She has always liked reading the epitaphs—some pithy, some pious—that distilled a person’s life down to a line or two.  “At rest in the Lord” was 82 when she died.  “Beloved husband and father” was 67 and his “beloved wife” had no end date yet on their dual marker.  “In joyful hope” entered this particular segment of the communion of saints when he was only 13.

     He was her son.

     He was her beautiful, willful, sunny, stubborn son and he died of leukemia 10 days shy of his 14th birthday.

      So many times when she came—weeping or angry or simply numb—to his graveside, she would experience those words on his gravestone as a slap in the face, a cruel joke.  There had been no joy and precious little hope in their household as they had waited for his death and then waited to move on to the next stage of grief and now waited for some kind of peace.

      Still, she would come to sit by his grave and find a connection with him that was free of the anguish accompanying the memories that ambushed her elsewhere, in the kitchen, in the street, in the middle of the night.  The stillness of the house without him was a constant, painful reminder of what she had lost and of all that would never be.  The stillness by his graveside afforded her a space to remember with joy.

      Today as she walks into the cemetery, she takes her favorite route.  She says a silent prayer for “At rest in the Lord” and notes that “Beloved husband and father” is still waiting to be joined by his wife. 

      They’re all waiting, she thinks, as she looks at the crosses and monuments and gravestones that cover the hillside. All of these children of God are waiting, silently and steadfastly bearing witness to the hope we have been promised—that death is not the end, that we will have eternal life. 

      My son waits too, she thinks, and here in this place, I am able to wait with him. I am in good company.

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Written by Kathryn Johnson, 2007. Kathryn Johnson, who for many years worked in the Communications Office of the Archdiocese of Seattle, is a freelance writer living in Seattle.

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