I hadn’t been out to Ireland’s grave since we buried her on that cold January afternoon, and I just needed to go and spend some time with her. We stopped and got her some pink carnations, and took the back roads out to the cemetary. It truly is a peaceful, quiet place to rest. It brings me comfort to know that she is resting with her family.
When my mom and I finished up our visit, I was looking over the graves of my grandpa, great-grandparents and aunts and uncles cleaning them off a a bit; when I noticed this grave, it had the names of three of my great-grandma’s children. ( I know the picture is hard to see, sorry). I got lost in the moment thinking of my great-grandparents standing very close to where we were standing, not once but three different times laying to rest their precious children. All of them were close to a year old, give or take a couple of months. I had seen that marker before, but I never realized the heartache that surrounded that stone.I don’t think you can understand that pain until you’ve experienced it. I read a quote that hits the nail on the head;
“A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. But…there is no word for a parent who loses a child, that’s how awful the loss is!” – Neugeboren 1976, 154
My mom told me that my great-grandpa had chiseled the head stone with his own hands. Three different times. I appreciate the headstone now, the pain in the chisel marks. I wonder about the thoughts that were going through his mind while he carved that stone, I bet they were a modern day version of Psalm 31;