Today is my mom’s birthday.
I didn’t bake her a cake.
I didn’t call and sing to her over the phone.
I didn’t even send her a card.
If I decide to stop by to wish her a happy birthday, the closest I will get will be to sink my knees into the cold earth next to her grave.
Every time I go to ‘visit’ her at the cemetery, an inner transformation takes place.
My fingers grudgingly turn the steering wheel into the driveway, and dread sits indian-style in my stomach, unwilling to budge.
I go in with a narrow lens zoomed in on my own self-pity.
Then I start to walk around, slowly, intentionally. I read the inscriptions on the tombstones, and my inward focus is gradually turned outward.
I grieve for people I’ve never met. I feel the weight of the burdens of those left behind — names with no faces, but with bleeding hearts like mine.
I start to look through wider lenses, and with a panoramic view, I can see how gracious the Lord was, even in my own deep sense of loss.
For me, walking through a cemetery is an incredibly humbling ritual.
There is nothing quite like it to remind me that
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