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| Mommy, what are all those people doing at the cemetery? |
I was raised in the Catholic Church, and never heavily involved there either. I didn't know what pastor's did... or pastor's wives...or pastor's children. I really had no idea that we were entering into a new lifestyle, and not just a job.
This.
This way of living.
This family of sinner-saints.
This constant flood of joy and sorrow.
This grace-filled, cross-filled life.
My children are not shielded from these things. They hear and see sadness beyond their years.
Standing with my not-so-innocent children at the window, facing again a cold reality I'd rather deny, I speak the words of comfort that they have come to expect.
Lord, fix our eyes upon You.
I grew up across the street from a cemetery (it was all you could see from our living room picture window), and even now when I drive by one, I am strangely comforted. We always prayed for the mourning when there was a funeral, just like we prayed for the injured when we heard an ambulance siren. My very first graveside funeral (when I was seven for a friend who died when she was nine) was at "our" cemetery.
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