“Hey, kids! How about some gravestone scrubbing at the cemetery today?” Well, that’s not exactly what I said, but you get the idea.
This past Sunday morning, I zipped into Target, dodging people grabbing their morning coffees before church. I headed straight for the cleaning supplies aisle to grab two buckets, three scrub brushes, and a pair of rubber gloves. Sure, I could have planned ahead, but let’s be honest: my intentions are good, but my planning could use some work.
I’ve always had a fondness for cemeteries—not for any macabre reasons, but because I adore the stones, the names etched in them, and the stories they tell. I see cemeteries as unique neighborhoods filled with people who just happen to be resting.
My first experience with death was when my grandmother passed away when I was just six years old. I stayed at home while the family attended the burial, only recalling the massive fruit basket that arrived, adorned with a shiny bow. For me, death meant fruit baskets and a lot of absence.
As a child, I was convinced my grandma’s spirit visited me at night. I could feel her presence at the foot of my bed, which is why I chose to name my daughter after her.
In high school, I babysat for a family whose backyard was adjacent to a Jewish cemetery. Their tiny yard was bordered by low boxwoods, leading right up to the headstones. The house was old and creaked at night, which terrified me. I’d call my mom to come search the house more than once. Eventually, I comforted myself with the thought that the cemetery was Jewish, and as a fellow Jew, I was safe from any ghostly hauntings.
In my home, discussions about death were rare, which, looking back, only added to the fear. I made a conscious choice with my own kids to approach death openly. We don’t glorify it or obsess over it, but we discuss it without fear.
Every faith has its perspective on death and what comes after. Our beliefs about mortality are as diverse as our views on life. When I talk to my children about death, we explore different cultural beliefs. My daughter currently leans toward reincarnation, which fits her wise-beyond-her-years personality.
Ultimately, I think it’s impossible to know what happens after we die. However, if we strive to live meaningful lives, we can rest easy about the unknown. A quote from a wise friend in junior high still resonates with me: “Live while you live and then die and be done with it.” It’s a simple yet profound reminder.
When it comes to my own end, I’m not too concerned about the details. (Should I be buried? Cremated? Perhaps a natural burial? Or a flamboyant funeral pyre? Maybe everyone should perform my favorite kickboxing routine in my honor?) In the grand scheme of things, it won’t matter. I’ll be gone, and that’s perfectly fine.
During a trip to Berlin in the early 2000s, my husband and I visited a Jewish cemetery in East Berlin. It was sprawling, with many headstones weathered and reclaimed by nature. The trees and moss enveloped the stones, telling a story of time’s passage.
One family tomb caught our attention—a large granite slab split down the middle, a tree sprouting from the crack. The family name? Baum, which means tree in German. It was a striking image of life and death intertwined, a reminder of nature’s power.
Equipped with our buckets, brushes, and gloves, we headed to the cemetery with my kids’ Sunday school group. The rabbi spoke about the mitzvah of caring for graves during the time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.
While my family doesn’t have graves in this town, many others do. We visited those graves, learning about the stories behind them. My daughter diligently focused on a stone that caught her eye, while my son chose one belonging to his Hebrew tutor.
The work felt rewarding—uncovering names and dates, restoring legibility. Would the deceased appreciate our efforts? Who knows. But perhaps it’s comforting to think that someone cared enough to visit and tend to their memory.
Death, mourning, and memory can be fragmented, yet each of us carries within us shards of experience and affection. Caring for the graves of others—just as we do in life—helps piece these fragments together. Look at all those beautiful bits of history and love; they’re not solely ours but a collective tapestry of human experience.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Mia Thompson recounts her family’s unique tradition of caring for gravestones in a cemetery, exploring her personal history with death and how it influenced her parenting. She emphasizes the importance of open discussions about death, the beauty of memorializing those who have passed, and the collective memory we share as humans.