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They are still gone
Wednesday, September 11, 2013 at 11:44AM 
Last Friday, well before first light on the day that would finish with my being attacked by an owl, I got up and dressed.
I made coffee, poured it into our big green Stanley thermos, woke up Erica to ride shotgun, and headed out for Elmwood Cemetery.
We'd long talked about being there when the sun came up, to walk and have our coffee and take pictures in the beauty and serenity of that place.
Now I wish I could do the same every day.
For peace, you cannot beat a cemetery. I am not trying to be funny. Well, maybe just a little.
But seriously. The quiet and the matutinal serenity and the beauty of an old, well-kept, park-like cemetery at daybreak, is worth the effort.
You should try it sometime.
Deceptively delicate flowering vines collect in riotous profusion on century-old wrought iron fences.
The angel guarding the graves of the young Sims sisters writes in her book as she has for nearly a hundred-fifty years of mornings.
Climbing something-or-other creeps and curls, holding out arms and hands so tender and so small.
They're clingy and tenacious, just as we tend to be when it comes to our life.
Like, no doubt, every soul whose remains lie beneath this soil, clung to life as long as ever they could.
Just as the thousands of Americans destroyed twelve years ago today desperately wanted to live, never more so than in those last moments when they knew that because of evil men, life on this sweet earth was no longer an option.
No more boundless new-day possibilities for them. You and I have had twelve years of mornings that they were cruelly denied.
They are still gone. And yet the sun rises and the angel, facing east from which direction will come redemption, writes.
Iron gates, prettified so as to soften the hard message of death, stood ajar that day as they sometimes do.
And the angel patiently wrote. I believe she writes God's message of truth and judgment. Like Him, she never wavers. There is no doubt of the outcome.
Tender tendrils creep and cling moistly in the new-day dew. They are all still gone.
The impossibly tiny shoots reach, pointing toward the sun as it begins to burn and bedazzle in the east.
Stones placed in the ground to mark lives that ended dozens of years before the dead of nine eleven were even born, collect lichen and point toward heaven.
The light greets the stone as it does each newborn day. They are still gone.
Our flag stood still against the morning sky. Old Glory stands proud in spite of a traitorous president who is on the side of our enemies. They're still gone and he's still here, but there will be a payday.
Rest assured.
As sure as there are funerals every day of the world, there will be an end to Mr. Obama's world of corruption.
And after that, God's judgment on what wicked men have done and on what we have done about it.
He is longsuffering, like the iron stanchions so patient and so strong.
They are still gone but the work of evil godless men will not endure forever.
The rising sun will make cathedrals of God's creation until the day He returns.
Liberty And My Country, the inscription on the marble banner reads. The stone marks the grave of a young man who gave his life for what he believed.
Sunbeams illuminate the work of stonecutters and spiders. Patience.
Patience is bitter, but its reward is sweet. ~Jean-Jaques Rousseau
In cemeteries, the work of hands long folded speaks with a voice long silent to the willing still-beating heart.
Speaks of patience and virtue as autumn gathers over the world and over our beloved country.
For anything worth having one must pay the price; and the price is always work, patience, love, self-sacrifice -- no paper currency, no promises to pay, but the gold of real service. ~John Burroughs
Everything here symbolizes in one way or another, lives laid aside. They are still gone, but they live in eternity.
I've never seen a stone that reads "Here tells the truth." It's always "Here Lies ..."
Apologies. I couldn't resist, mate. Pirate.
When I read the word sacred in a cemetery, I first see the word scared. But I am not scared of death. Only of owls.
Lives short and long -- or what passes for long in this life -- were carved out, then vanished. Only the stones and the sacred memories remain. They are still gone.
And still the slow burn in the east. A faithful light-washed dawn every single day God gives.
The beams tumble from the sky, scattering night's shadows.
They are still gone but the sun is patient, obeying only God its creator.
Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the Lord shall be thy rereward. ~Isaiah 58:8
This little fellow lies beneath a tree, next to a marble cross. As many times as I've been to Elmwood, I never noticed him until last Friday.
His life was but a wink and he is forever gone, but I thought about him.
One of my favorite motifs on grave monuments is the closed book. A metaphor to be sure, but as I framed the shot I thought of how much those who are still gone, would love to lie under a tree today and read a book.
To enjoy a day of peace, with no threat of terror.
The little vines twine, tethering themselves to something much stronger than they. And so should we.
Late crape myrtles bloom as if there is no tomorrow, secure in their innocence, a cross in view.
Joy is everywhere in abundance, and color, and life, and light, and hope. Savor it today in sacred memory of those victims of nine eleven. They who are still gone.
Shine light ever on the cross of Jesus and those enemies of freedom, those who serve the enemy, will scatter like the bloodsucking, bloodthirsty vampires that they are.
Even in gloom, light is still light. It helps everything it touches.
Even silent forgotten stone petals feel it.
In cemeteries, sometimes things get misplaced. Broken pieces are everywhere to be found. There will most likely not be mending in this life.
Take a tip from the stone angels: Patience. Deo Vindice. God our vindicator.
And never, ever forget.
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A Death blow is a life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become --
Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.
Emily Dickinson
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Happy Wednesday
May God Bless America and confound her enemies both foreign and domestic.
Especially domestic.
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Reader Comments (6)
Beautifully written. Thank you.
The above comment was actually left by my daughter Erica. She was at my computer, logged on as me. LOL I don't comment on my own posts, believe it or not.
Again, you've found beauty, in a place more commonly known for sorrow, on a day we remember with sorrow. Thank you.
Very beautiful and poetic. Except for the Obama bit. He is never either.
And it takes a certain something to come up with a word I have never heard before. Matutinal. I had to look it up. Very logical, when you think about it.
Beautiful tribute.
Wow, gorgeous pictures and so many! This was thoughtful and thought-provoking.