Nearly every year as Easter approaches, I commit the biggest cardinal sin one can commit in my small, southern hometown.
I rarely put flowers on my parents’ graves.
Growing up, I recall hearing them talk about who did not place flowers on their loved ones graves this time of year and also at Christmas. Listening to my mother go on and on about it, as my dad listened with a deaf ear, I thought such acts of omission must qualify a grave-negligent person for hell. As Moravians, we always attended the Easter sunrise service that began in our sanctuary and culminated with a two-block walk to the cemetery, where most people stood by their loved ones’ final resting places. I learned in Sunday School that the dead will rise at the final judgement, and I often wondered if it would happen that day, that I’d witness the Lord returning in the clouds and see familiar faces bursting from their graves.
And rather than notice the many floral arrangements that adorned these graves, I’d focus more on those that were barren.
My daddy always told me to just put him in a cardboard box and toss him in the ground when he died. I think he was only half joking because he buried thousands of fellow POWS at some of the camps where he was interred during WWII. My mama, though, was a stickler about having flowers on graves.
I suppose I have disappointed her.
Why have I skipped placing flowers on graves in recent years?
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my husband perished at sea, so my sons and I have never had a grave to visit. Russ is always in our hearts everyday, and his soul is with God. One day he’ll rise from that sea and have both legs again!
I also find flowers–whether real or fake–to be pricey grave ornaments. Sure, one can create something beautiful using dollar store flowers, but I’d rather have something nice than something that looks cheap.
I am also cognizant of the fact that those bodies have decayed: My parents, my grandparents, my Sunday School teachers. Embalming doesn’t preserve a body for long, so I know there’s little physical resemblance that remains. Yes, the bones of my parents are the remaining parts of bodies that loved, that created me, that ate and drank and worshiped.
Sure, I feel guilty some days, but my parents’ spirits are with me each day.
And I know that some relatives and even the church in which I grew up have placed simple creations on the graves over the years.
I appreciate those generous acts very much.
Maybe next year I will ask a friend to place small vases of fresh flowers from Food Lion on my parents’ graves. That would be a beautiful gesture, honoring the two people who gave me life and who raised me.
This year, though, once again, I am certain there are a few folks, including some family members, who whisper how terrible it is that Amy Alberty (my maiden name) rarely places flowers on her parents’ graves.
As Mel Robbins says, “Let them.”
It really is a beautiful thing to honor the earthly remains that housed the souls of our loved ones, but it’s not required.
And it’s also not a competition for biggest and most colorful decorations or a means to keep quiet those who have nothing better to do than talk behind backs.
This year I will not feel any guilt, but next year, I’ll do something very simple. A basket of plastic Easter eggs or a resin lamb should do just fine.
I will have honored the people I loved, and the few judgmental tongues will stop wagging.
Amy Walton loves walking through cemeteries and reading epitaphs. She’s forgiving of people who aren’t into grave decorating and hopes others don’t judge her. Connect with her at amywaltoncoaching@gmail.com.