Reflection
The Quiet Gift of a Cemetery
I recently visited Banff, Canada, for a conference.
As a travel destination, I have to say it was one of the most picturesque and beautiful places I have ever been. It felt like being in a Hallmark movie: a cozy ski-resort town where everyone seemed friendly, smiling, and helpful. People sat out on balconies and overhangs at cafes and small restaurants, enjoying the views and celebrating whatever purpose had brought them there.
Each evening, after the sessions were done, a colleague and I would walk down the hill from the conference center to the downtown district. There were a few routes we could take, but unless we took the scenic route along the river, we would inevitably pass the Old Banff Cemetery.
The last time I had deliberately visited a cemetery was at my grandmother’s graveside with my mom and sisters. I still think of her often. I still miss her.
There is something humbling about walking past headstones.
Some were large. Some were small. Some were old enough that the names had begun to fade. Some were newer, cleaner, easier to read. Interestingly enough, I later learned there is even a Banff restoration project to help preserve the headstones at the Old Banff Cemetery.
As I gazed out over the cemetery, I couldn’t help but reflect on the lives of those who had passed before me.
All their worries.
All their stresses.
All their problems.
All their achievements and sorrows.
Everything distilled to just a few words on a headstone.
Beloved mother.
Devoted father.
Faithful friend.
Loved deeply.
Or maybe there were no words at all.
Just a name followed by some dates.
And it made me think about my own life.
Do the things I worry about really matter?
Does where I spend my time make a difference?
If my headstone reflected the places that occupy the majority of my energy right now, what would it say?
Here lies David Gailey.
Loved his family.
Worked hard.
Compared himself to others.
Own worst critic.
Because in the end, many of the problems that seem so important right now are not going to matter. And all of those self-judgments and comparisons probably won’t even be remembered.
So why spend so much time and energy acting as if they will?
Maybe that is the quiet gift of a cemetery.
Perspective.
A reminder to ask whether we are living our lives with intention, or whether there is an opportunity to realign ourselves with a larger truth.
Here lies David.
Present.
Kind.
A good father.
A good friend.
Full of life.