Two Tombstones

It was a Portland perfect day for a walk in the cemetery. As per normal, the cloud cover was low, the sky was gray, and rain was consistently inconsistent. I donned my rubber boots – black with aqua polka dots – my red London Fog rain jacket, complete with hood and lining, and my umbrella. Now, this is no plain umbrella. This fabulous bumbershoot, given as the perfect gift by a dear PA friend our first year in Portland, looks like the inside of a box of chocolates, wrappers and all. Delicious! So, bottom line, I was very cute, if not the fashionista you may have imagined. That’s Portland. You can wear just about anything, whether it matches or not, and it’s all good. “Keep Portland Weird” is the motto and sometimes I am pretty good at doing my part.
After reading Chapter 3 of Six Hours, I knew a cemetery walk was a must-do. Now I have my own “Two Tombstones” story and am eager to share with you.

It’s just a small square of land, directly across from the church, on the corner of Glisan and 90th. We’ve walked past it thousands of times. There are probably less than 100 grave markers on the site, but such a variety, each one representing the person who lived life and was loved enough for someone to bury them there. Our community is culturally diverse, and this fact was evidenced in the epitaphs on the tombstones, some in Russian, some in Chinese, many in English. The stones, dating back to the 1800s tell of short lives ~ infant twins who lived just 3 months; brothers ages 8 and 3, who died of diphtheria just four days apart. And long lives. One indicates beloved mother, grandmother, great grandmother and great great grandmother. Two side by side bear witness to a husband and wife who died within days of one another. People with stories we will never know.As I walked and read, the rain beating down on my chocolate umbrella, I was especially intrigued by an unusual marker. It was the flat kind, rose-colored, etched on the bottom left with an animal paw bearing five claws. On the opposite corner was a spiderweb-looking thing, and three feathers dangling from it. Someone had placed some smooth, colored glass stones on top of the gravestone.

I surmised that this man, Charlo, who died just shy of age 53, was an American Indian. I realized that the spider web was a Dreamcatcher. I was lost in thought, when I saw that on the bottom, barely legible, was a one-line epitaph. It read, “All dressed up and nowhere to go.” It may have just been something Charlo was always saying or a private joke among friends, but I was immediately saddened. “Here,” I thought, “is my Grace Llewellen Smith.” Futility. Nothing to look forward to on the other side. Did he spend his life wishing, hoping, wanting, waiting for the opportunity that never came? Did he enter eternity without the hope of heaven? Oh, if only it had said, “All dressed up and finally, someplace to go!”

Just ten feet or so away was the marker of another young man, Dana, just 56 when he died. I imagine his family was not ready to let him go. Around the rectangle, it stated, “Loving husband and father” and “Greatly loved son and brother”. But their eternal hope was expressed by more words etched in the stone. “Faithful servant and witness of our Lord Jesus Christ” and “He finished well Phil 3:10”. And in these words, I, too, was reminded of the hope I share. Life is not futile. I have all eternity to celebrate! Because of six hours one Friday…and the Sunday that followed!