I always decorate graves this time of year. Getting my sons to join me in that endeavor ranks with “Gotta’ mow the lawn, Mom!” and “Time to change the oil, Mom!” In other words, decorating grave sites may actually be at the bottom, the absolute bottom of the list of things they want to do.
We’re preparing for Alma’s graveside service. Knowing all 15 of us, kiddos and their parents will be there, a flood of memories I want to share flood my mind. Buried near Alma are my mom, my grandmother and grandfather, aunts and uncles, a host of family members who slapped Alma on the back or bear-hugged him in his transition. I plan on taking the whole kit and caboodle on a little walk down memory lane. I want to share a short anecdote about the people who shaped their lives, who pray for them, whose DNA prescribed their noses and chins and hair lines. They even touch our adopted kiddos one way or another.
Stories transcend time. They take us to a time and place the imagination makes vivid with description. We may live in a visually over-dosed society, but never underestimate the osmosis of values, love, or joy from words bridging generations. Decorating graves is something I do, but yes, I’m telling stories this year. True ones.