A Place to Hang Up the Capes

I love cemeteries. On the streets and in tiny apartments, a person must smile all the time, must reserve tears for their closet. He (inclusive of "she") must put on a tiger suit and then try to earn his stripes by some so-called strength. Sometimes we all forget what makes us real. Jesus wept. Why is it that the weepers of the world are labeled so often as weak, pessimistic, attention-seekers, or too serious? My pain is as beautiful as my joy. It is what makes me real. Without my reality, I am nothing to care about. It is my imperfections, my vulnerability that makes me matter and makes me relatable.

Have you ever noticed that in a cemetery, even the homeless man, the high school football star, the girl dressed in all black and chains, the troubled young adult, the parent, the weeping willows, there, the world gives them permission to weep? It is here in front of a stone in the earth that we acknowlegde our humanity. We acknowledge our need for eachother, our aches and our pains. Whether gathered in a circle or separately kneeling in solitude, all the drops of tears are acknowledged and welcomed just as much as all the drops of dew on each flower petal hovering over a name not breathing anymore.

All the people slowly walking through soft wet grass have a similar ache in their hearts and it is one they each know will never go away. Each wrinkled forhead radiates this understanding. A oneness in understanding, a knowing, an empathy you just aren't allowed to feel too many other places in the world.

The people that have passed on have done just that; passed on. They aren’t here. But us wanderers on Earth find some sort of haven here. The memorials aren’t for them; they are for us- a memorial of our humanity, a plaque of recognition that we are human. Not just because we die, but also because we cry. Not just because we cry, but because we love. Not just because we die, but also because we live. We hunger for something that reminds us that pain is an honerable and beautiful part of our existence because it is the medal of love and living. 

A cemetery is a refuge from the super human claims posted on the screens, billboards, and even cultural faces of an aching world putting on their capes and pretending gravity never affected their lives. ” This is soaring!” they say as if they don’t really care about all the rest of us real people with our feet on the ground… or six feet under.

     

 

Why do we discredit an emotion that enriches the other? Why do we forget that each emotion is temporary, both the pleasant and unpleasant? When did smiling become the communicator of strength, it is only one kind. Why is sadness so easily labeled a disorder to be treated in American culture? Since when did happiness become so self-contained and independent of relationships in our lives? Don't misunderstand. Being happy is wonderful. Smiling can help sometimes to heal from the pain, but it shouldn't be a mask when it is appropriate to frown. I echo a quote from a talk from Elder Jeffery R. Holland that has been long overdue, "... no one can responsibly suggest it would surely go away if those victims would just square their shoulders and think more positively—though I am a vigorous advocate of square shoulders and positive thinking!"

Furthermore, God does not look down upon our suffering. As President Monson said to the Relief Society sisters: “That love never changes. … It is there for you when you are sad or happy, discouraged or hopeful. God’s love is there for you whether or not you feel you deserve [it]. It is simply always there.”

The Cemetery is a bare human place where all hang up the capes, where all is raw and we seem to, among the dead, start living inside ourselves again.

A year ago today, Carmody Sagers died. I visited her grave this morning. I wept. I took her advice and I did not miss the little things. I took a walk. I sang to the wind. I watched seven blue birds communicate with two robins. I followed two brown bunnies into the brush. I watched the horses below. I blew bubbles and watched the colors swirl through transparency. I breathed deeply. I prayed. As I stood beside the dead, I tried my best to live.

It's okay to sit a while and just miss them.