In God's Loving Care

If you asked me how to get there, I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly.

I’d tell you to stay to the right, go over the bridge next to the weeping willow, up past the Jewish section, and then it’s on the right.

I just get there instinctively.  The years have made this part of my internal compass which knows the right direction.

I pull up and see a man in the next section, sitting in a lawn chair, next to (what I’m assuming) is his wife. He's reading a paper.  If I were him, I’d do the same thing.  I’d come and sit, read, and maybe talk to her for a while.  If I lived close enough, I’d try to come once a day.

I stole this time away from my family, from my kids.  I don’t always come.  My trips back home are fewer and far between.  This isn't always a priority.  

Yet coming here, being here, is good for me.

I just left a very sweet time of conversation and laughter with a friend who knows my heart. I leave that to come here.    And I will leave this quiet place to rejoin my family and all those boisterous children full of energy and innocence.

I come for this reminder.  This is my reality.  

Every Good Thing in my life tastes sweeter now. Sitting here for a time orders my life.

I will mindfully wave to the man in the chair.   I will gently smile and nod at the family dressed in their fancy black clothes.  

We share this place.  This peace.  This reality. 

I take note of the section.  But I remind myself, she's not really here.  As her gravestone says, she’s “In God’s Loving Care.”