A Pebble
Tomorrow I will bring a small pebble to church to remember my cousin Bobby.
When her son Warren was diagnosed with AIDS he turned to the Episcopal church's Service of Healing. In time Warren came to embrace Jesus.
When Warren died many of the family turned away-- judging a young man who courted drugs and lost his life to dirty needles.
Two years later my cousin fought brain cancer and invisible battles with family members who, " Didn't care about my son."
She had a few friends who looked in on her, but hers was a lonely battle. When we drove to New York to see her she vacillated between hopeful about defeating the cancer and bitter about family. She never could release the animosity she felt.
" I don't believe in God," she said, " but I'll take prayers from anyone except those who couldn't ask about my son or come to his funeral."
The last time we drove down to see Bobby, a hospice nurse attended to her needs. When lucid, Bobby told us that she didn't want a funeral or a memorial service. She had made plans.
She asked if I ever went to upstate New York where Warren was buried in a small church cemetery. If so, would I place a pebble on his gravestone. That's a Jewish tradition-- some say it's a marker of a visit, some say it represents the permanence of memory.
There's a story that's told about shepherds in Biblical times who needed to keep track of their sheep. Rather than rely on memory they carried a sling filled with pebbles-- a pebble for each sheep. The pebbles allowed them to keep a daily track of their flock.
According to Rabbi David Wolpe, " When we place place stones on the grave...we are asking God to keep the departed's soul in His sling. Among all the souls whom God has to watch over, we wish to add the name--the pebble-- of the soul of the departed."
The summer Bobby died I was in upstate New York and drove to the small Episcopal Church. I roamed through the small cemetery-- starting in one corner and reading the names on the stones until I found Warren's gravestone--and left a small pebble in front of the stone and said a prayer.
Tomorrow I'll leave a pebble for Bobby--part of a memorial service. No one knows where Bobby is buried-- but she's not forgotten.
When her son Warren was diagnosed with AIDS he turned to the Episcopal church's Service of Healing. In time Warren came to embrace Jesus.
When Warren died many of the family turned away-- judging a young man who courted drugs and lost his life to dirty needles.
Two years later my cousin fought brain cancer and invisible battles with family members who, " Didn't care about my son."
She had a few friends who looked in on her, but hers was a lonely battle. When we drove to New York to see her she vacillated between hopeful about defeating the cancer and bitter about family. She never could release the animosity she felt.
" I don't believe in God," she said, " but I'll take prayers from anyone except those who couldn't ask about my son or come to his funeral."
The last time we drove down to see Bobby, a hospice nurse attended to her needs. When lucid, Bobby told us that she didn't want a funeral or a memorial service. She had made plans.
She asked if I ever went to upstate New York where Warren was buried in a small church cemetery. If so, would I place a pebble on his gravestone. That's a Jewish tradition-- some say it's a marker of a visit, some say it represents the permanence of memory.
There's a story that's told about shepherds in Biblical times who needed to keep track of their sheep. Rather than rely on memory they carried a sling filled with pebbles-- a pebble for each sheep. The pebbles allowed them to keep a daily track of their flock.
According to Rabbi David Wolpe, " When we place place stones on the grave...we are asking God to keep the departed's soul in His sling. Among all the souls whom God has to watch over, we wish to add the name--the pebble-- of the soul of the departed."
The summer Bobby died I was in upstate New York and drove to the small Episcopal Church. I roamed through the small cemetery-- starting in one corner and reading the names on the stones until I found Warren's gravestone--and left a small pebble in front of the stone and said a prayer.
Tomorrow I'll leave a pebble for Bobby--part of a memorial service. No one knows where Bobby is buried-- but she's not forgotten.
1 Comments:
This was simply beautiful, Linda.
Marcia
Post a Comment
<< Home