After both of my miscarriages our priest came to our home for the burial. Both times we planted a rosebush. (Both times it died. I am better at children than plants.) Both times those little graves remained a source of comfort to me, a place where the temporal and the eternal intersected.
I am a convert to Catholicism and I knew nothing about Catholic funeral rites until I buried my own first baby. I did not know that the priest would bless a patch of ground for her to lie in, but I loved that he did. It still looked like an ordinary yard, but I knew it held a sacred place. At Dominic's burial the priest prayed: "O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, send your holy angel to watch over this grave." And I loved that, too: the idea that my son's grave was precious not only to me but to the Lord God, that he would appoint an angel as watcher and guardian.
I sit there sometimes while the boys are playing outside. Sometimes I pray the rosary; sometimes I just sit and think. (Sometimes I am dodging tricycles and Super Soaker jets, which makes it less conducive to fruitful meditation.) Yesterday in Perelandra I read Ransom's reflections on the impact of the Incarnation on the whole created world [brief pause as I search high and low for Perelandra, kicked under the couch during yesterday's cushion battle]: When Eve fell, God was not Man. He had not yet made men members of His body: since then He had, and through them henceforward he would save and suffer. It reminds me that with my own hands I can do holy work as I change diapers and chop onions. With my own feet I can walk a sacred path, even if it looks like I'm only going to the library and the playground.
As I was looking for the words to the graveside prayer quoted above I found this alternate prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, by your own three days in the tomb you hallowed the graves of all who believe in you and so made the grave a sign of hope that promises resurrection even as it claims our mortal bodies. And I love that, too -- that what looks like the end of the line is meant to be a sign of hope. When I die they will lay me in consecrated ground. Let it be a consolation to them as it has been to me.
Dominic's rosebush never grew, even though I followed the directions on its pot carefully. The naked canes made me sad -- it's hard to be hopeful looking at something dead. Yesterday I took my potted mint plant from the farmer's market and put it in the ground next to the rosebush. I don't know much about gardening, but I hear you have to work pretty hard to kill a mint plant. Sometimes when you don't get what you expected, you can still be glad for what you have. That's what I want to remember when I see it in that spot, green and fragrant and alive.
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