Every life, no matter how short, endures as long as it is remembered.

That Once Occupied Space

The vacant chair at the table is not empty, nor is the vacant space around the Christmas Tree, the omission in family pictures, the date on the calendar that was always marked as a birthday. Those spaces are filled with memories, longing, and perhaps even regret. Most of all, however, they are filled with love. There is comfort because the space will always be there, with love, delightful memories, and great appreciation for the short life that was once in those spaces.
The title of this blog is the name of an old song that was written at the beginning of the Civil War. The Vacant Chair, written by George F. Root in 1861 can be found on the website "Civil War Talk."

We shall meet but we shall miss him. — There will be one vacant chair. — We shall linger to caress him —While we breathe our ev'ning prayer.
When one year ago we gathered, — Joy was in his mild blue eye. — Now the golden cord is severed, — And our hopes in ruin lie.
CHORUS:
We shall meet, but we shall miss him. — There will be one vacant chair. — We shall linger to caress him — While we breathe our ev'ning prayer.

Verses two and three are also included on the site listed above, and they refer to the death of a young man on the battle field. You can search YouTube to find recordings of the song with its common melody. The most clearly and beautifully simple version is this Tennessee Ernie Ford rendition.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Up There (at the Cemetery) Again????

     When visiting a cemetery, it isn't difficult to find the grave sites of children. They are among those with flowers, balloons, lights, seasonal decorations and even toys surrounding the stones. All of the sites pictured here have been in place for at least a couple of years, yet they are still visited regularly. It begs the question of "How can these families keep grieving so deeply?"
          The answer, however, is not rooted only in grief, but also by identity. Parents and grandparents do not stop being "mom or dad" or "grandma or grandpa" when a child is no longer living. They continue in those roles for years, probably until they themselves die.
           I once read a story about a young man who visited his mother's grave from time to time. Each time, a nearby grave was brightly decorated with flowers and balloons. It was the grave of a child. As time went by, he found himself at the cemetery once or twice a year, because members of his family had grown old and passed on. Always, the little stone was freshly decorated. Finally, when he himself was an old man, he found that the little stone at the cemetery was not decorated. Curious, he walked over the the plot and saw that the child's mother had died at the age of 97. It was obviously she who had tended to her child for all those years.
Decorating at the cemetery is not the only way we continue to be the child's family, however. I had an uncle who died around the age of forty. My father kept many pictures of his brother, and of him and his brother together. My aunts talked of him, and my grandmother, particularly, told of how he entertained children by giving them "horsie" rides, reciting rhymes, and singing songs. My memories of him were very clear. Only recently did I discover that he had died before I was two years old! There was no way I actually remembered him in as many settings as I believed, and yet I have a clear picture of who he was and the things he did within the family.
          When a child dies, parents do not stop being the child's parents, and grandparents do not stop being the child's grandparents. For most of us, we continue to be caregivers, not of the child, but of all that keeps the memories of the child going on. That child will live in memory as long as the last person who knew him or her lives. So, continuing the memory whenever appropriate means that, at least in spirit, the child lives on. We are being responsible parents.

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