A Legacy of Stone

Meditations from a Graveyard

“I tell you, if they keep quiet, the very stones will cry out.”

~ Luke 19:40 ~

I need to wander through graveyards more often. I know that sounds morose, but it’s true. At least for me.

I wander in a lot of places and in a lot of directions. Most of life seems to be a complicated network of wanderings, after all. I wander online to avoid chores, hopping from one app to another, each labelled with a different category of distraction. I wander across town, accomplishing this errand and that, remembering the one key item I forgot only as I pull in the garage. I wander from one TV station to the other, from one book to another, from one text to the next, from one conversation to none. Wandering about with purpose and without.

But I rarely wander in graveyards.

Years ago, when I remembered to take spiritual retreats, I’d find a monastery, preferably within a podcast or two’s distance. I’d settle into my room, cloistered far from the actual monks, yet nestled in an introvert’s haven. And then, I’d wander. Through the cave-like hallways carved with archways and columns and statues and at least one crucifix and into the modest library always apportioned with at least one volume on saints of old before venturing out onto the vast grounds at times circling a small pond usually with a small chapel devoted to Mary tucked just off the path with a little bench for pondering amidst all the wandering.

Without fail, though, at some point, whether distant or adjacent to the sanctuary, a wrought iron gate, no more than hip high, would encompass a garden of stones. The gate rests open, inviting any and all to enter with proper solemnity and reverence. Gingerly, I step in, unsure if, like Moses, I should remove my sandals to honor the sacred ground.

My eyes canvas the scene, each headstone positioned like the backs of chairs or pews, just without an expectant audience readied for the homily. Or at least an audience I can see. With each chary step, I scan the engravings dotted with numerals, names, pithy aphorisms, and an “en dash” marrying two dates as one. A quote comes to mind, the author of which I can’t recall, “What matters is how we live and love, and how we spend our dash.” I wonder aloud if the punctuation (“—“) ought to be renamed “wander,” for “dash” seems to connote haste more than actual living. Hurry more than a life well lived.

I chuckle to myself at this last thought. I mean, here I’m alive, and I’m living my “dash” wandering amongst the dead. Weaving and winding through row after row of latent legacy.

I’m not sure I understand the idea of legacy. Whether or not it’s helpful to ponder or care about. Sure, to some extent, the thought of not being remembered at all seems more bleak than a stroll in a cemetery. But there are, without question, significant portions of me I don’t care to remember, more or less pass on for others to reminisce.

Much of my life I’ve lived with an angst not more than six inches below the surface. Although I’ve employed excuses and therapy to curb its public appearance, at times the irritant surfaces nonetheless. Sharp responses to innocent questions, for instance, from my kids or wife. Responses I pray they’ve forgotten, but I fear their just too polite to remind me. Too kind to pollute the past with facts, opting instead for whitewashed memories of me entombed by grace.

Is this my legacy? My anger refashioned by mercy’s memory? A eulogy not written from fact but a recrafting of the reality of me more palpable for those brave enough to attend my wake?

As I wander further into the graveyard, my mind trips on a small headstone about a third of the size of those around it. At first, I’m confused. Simple calculation fails to make sense of the dates dangling on each end of the dash. Suddenly it sinks in: this baby lived only eight days.

What legacy is contained in this punctuation? Did death even wait outside the womb or did it worm its way into Eve’s tomb? Was there any laughter in this dash? Any memories unpolluted by death’s grim pall? Or was this innocence snatched unexpectedly? Laid down for a nap only to awake in the arms of Jesus?

Some legacies are complicated, I suppose. Like the self-centered father who stayed behind to parent the four kids abandoned by their mother who had endured multiple affairs over multiple years until she decided to have one of her own. Enough blame to go around, I guess, even if no one is willing to claim their portion.

Chasing a legacy, though, seems oddly unbecoming of a saint, monk or otherwise. To some extent, working toward a lasting legacy strikes me as an awful lot like worry or anxiety. A persistent focus on the future that threatens one’s ability to enjoy the present. To truly live in the here and now. To overlook what is right in…

My toe strikes a headstone. A superstitious part of me surfaces that I was unaware even existed. “Is that bad luck? Is that curse worthy?” I step back in penance, muttering to all who care an apology, when the date of this grave catches my attention. The headstone carefully etched over three hundred years before, the dash extending all the way back to 1689.

It was like I’d stumbled upon a winning lottery ticket, as if, like with baseball cards, the older the tombstone the more valuable it must be. As ridiculous as that thought may be, my next thought was, “Well, I can’t be the first person to kick this tombstone, then.” As if some consolation can be found in only being the most recent to assail this headstone with a wayward foot—superstition be damned.

But I do wonder how many passersby traipsed past this rock without a glance? How many storms and sunsets passed overhead unable to fully weather this enduring stone? How many generations birthed, dreams died, and souls converted since this stone was pulled from earth’s womb in order to mark this soul’s tomb?

It struck me: even stones have a legacy. Some serve as foundations for homes, others gravel for roads, and still more shorelines for waves to erode. And yet others abide as tombstones, even for eight-day old babies.

I think somewhere in the New Testament Peter calls us “living stones,” which is a bit ironic coming from a guy whose name means “rock.” And yet, here in this graveyard, I like the metaphor. The idea that even though my legacy is worth about as much as a rock, I’m a stone who can’t help but cry out, “Hosanna in the highest!” since everyone else has grown silent. As a “living stone,” my legacy is to point beyond myself to an audience others cannot see. A cloud of witnesses testifying to the power and grace of the God not of the dead but of the living.

In the end, Lord, you are my legacy. You are the inheritance I leave. You are what I bequeath to posterity quarried from my family tree. For you are my beginning and my end, two arms embracing me and quickening me. All of me. My “dash” and everything else.

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