I have a fascination with cemeteries. No, that isn’t really normal. I like to wander around and read the headstones. Here will be a little grouping of a husband, his wife and their child. Maybe 100 years old. The child might have died on the same day of birth and the mother three days later. The father twenty-five years later. That tells a story. Youngish couple, she is pregnant and has a child. The child is either stillborn or dies quickly. The mother was apparently having problems with the pregnancy and, in three days, it takes her. Because there is no second wife or other children in the grouping, I would assume the husband never remarries. Since he dies in his forties, I envision him carrying his grief for the rest of his life and dying, in his time, of a broken heart. Of course, I am probably wrong on several counts, but I like to wonder as I wander.

          Many, many hours have been spent in different cemeteries in a number of different states. Walking in the day is a joy, but walking in the night is more interesting. In Florida I encountered an armadillo. I think it is fair to say that we both screamed in our own language. On another night in the same cemetery I came across two young men standing and talking. Since the armadillo thing I had taken to carrying a flashlight. I didn’t have it on as I walked and nearly bumped into the two teens. “Who are you,” one of the young men snapped. “I pastor this church! Who are you and what are you doing in my cemetery at one in the morning?” Hey, humans I can deal with. Armadillos can scare the daylights out of me, but humans in the dark in my cemetery at one in the morning better have an excuse. “Uh, well, sir, were visiting Granny’s grave.” “Uh, yeah. Granny’s grave.” They both took off their hats folded their hands in front of their ragged jeans and looked down, as if they were in prayer. “You boys must miss her a great deal, to be out here so late.” “Oh, yes sir. It is just killing us.” I played my light over the headstone and said, “Well, I would have thought that after 75 years it would be getting a little better. Why don’t you fellas leave.” “Uh, yes sir!”

          I was at McKinley Community Church in Warren, Ohio for ten years. There were a number of small cemeteries scattered around the area. The community had originally been settled by pioneers from Connecticut. When they came to the area, they brought their own pastor, a Presbyterian minister. Many of those first settlers are buried together in a small cemetery just outside of the current city. On the pastor’s headstone, in worn letters, are the words, “Still serving my Savior.” Probably more than any headstone ever, that one really got to me.

          Working at a funeral home gave me ample time to explore cemeteries. Some of those wanderings were not good. Once a lady and I were looking for her husband’s grave, who had just been buried the day before. There was no headstone yet and his was the first grave in the new section and it was winter and a lot of snow had fallen overnight, so finding the grave was a problem. I found it by the unlucky happenstance of stepping into it. The dirt was very loose and very soaked and I sank like I had stepped into a swimming pool. I went down until my foot hit the top of the vault that the casket was in. I was seriously in some deep trouble (pun intended). Another time, with the cemetery full of people and about a foot and a half of fresh snow, I disappeared from sight because I stepped into a hole where the cemetery workers had dug out a tree a couple of days before and had not filled the hole in. I walked into the hole on one side and walked out of the hole on the other. Now that I think of it, the armadillo wasn’t so bad.

          But it is the story on the headstones that captures my imagination. I had read about the Presbyterian minister in Warren, so I knew something of him. And I have visited the graves of several presidents and other notables, but the regular folks in the regular graves……

          I didn’t realize it until I was an adult, but my mother shared the same fascination as I. She and Marsha’s mother came to Florida for my ordination. This was at the church with the cemetery with the armadillo. Mom wanted me to walk her around the cemetery and we spent several hours reading headstones. She did the same thing I had done, working up a story of the lives based on the little information on the headstone. It was surprising how close our stories were. One section was given over to a family with the somewhat unfortunate name of Butts. In this section there were the older stones from the time of burial but also a much newer stone detailing that particular family. The father, Mr. Butts, was born in the 1700s. He married a native American named Lehey. For some reason, Mom saw the Lehey and thought it was Leathery. She said Leathery Butts just wasn’t a good name. My mother didn’t have a real refined sense of humor, but when she saw it was Lehey, she got tickled at herself. Anyway, the stone said they had 18 children. Then it listed their names in their birth order. The first child and the last child had the same name. When Mom saw all the names on that stone, she said, “Well, I don’t think I have ever seen so many Butts in one place.” So, there we were, two adults standing in a cemetery laughing like a couple of loons. When we had settled down, I pointed out the same name for the first and the last. “Do you suppose they just ran out of names and started over?” She sobered quickly and explained to me that the first one probably died shortly after birth. Lehey had many more, but probably always missed the first born. So, she gave the same name to the last as a way of remembering the first. She had a whole scenario created and she was probably pretty close to the truth.

          Our time here is limited. In a hundred years someone will wander through your cemetery and observe your grave. They will not know who you were or how you lived your life. But maybe, if we are faithful, it might be that their life was affected for the Lord by someone who was affected for the Lord by someone who was affected for the Lord by someone and going back until it gets to you. Or me. We have no other more important job.

          Our pastorate at Park Street Christian Church in Geneva, Ohio was an example of all the right puzzle pieces coming together and making an awesome ministry. I pray all of you will experience that someday. But I knew that within a few years of my departure I would be mostly forgotten. I never cared about that, but I wanted to leave my stamp on the Spiritual aspect of that church so that for generations to come the Word would be preached. On my last Sunday there I asked the choir to sing a song by Steve Green, “Find Us Faithful”.

We're pilgrims on the journey
Of the narrow road
And those who've gone before us line the way
Cheering on the faithful, encouraging the weary
Their lives a stirring testament to God's sustaining grace!

CHORUS

Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

Surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses
Let us run the race not only for the prize
But as those who've gone before us
Let us leave to those behind us
The heritage of faithfulness passed on through godly lives
CHORUS
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful
May the fire of our devotion light their way
May the footprints that we leave
Lead them to believe
And the lives we live inspire them to obey
Oh may all who come behind us find us faithful

          The only footprint we leave behind that really has importance is the footprint that blazes the trail that leads to Christ. Just like that Presbyterian minister, “Still serving my Savior.”