Old Churchyard

Sometimes I have moments where I feel kind of mad at Dad; mad at him for leaving us. Not long ago, I was having one of those moments. Sulking about how Dad died and then the world went haywire and wishing he were still here. Worrying about family genetics and wondering if this will be my fate too.

Then, I heard this song. While I’ve been listening to the Wailin’ Jennys for several years, I had yet to hear their rendition of this folk song ‘Old Churchyard’. I tried to find the origin of this song; I wanted to know the history. Yet, maybe there’s no need to know the history. Maybe, it was solely the need hear these words at the right moment and to feel the grace that came with it.

Because standing there in the kitchen, knee deep in canning applesauce and wallowing in the “it’s not fair” of Dad being gone, their succinct harmonies reminded me that while death is so incomprehensible, sometimes we must accept that death simply is.

Trust me, I don’t say that and feel much better or think that it’s any consolation or gives any clear explanation of death. My girls are still trying to comprehend how it can be that Grandpa is no longer here. I struggle driving by the cemetery every time I go to Mom’s wondering how all of a sudden someone seems to cease to exist. 

I say it simply is because after watching Dad suffer the way he did, how selfish it felt to be mad, to be wallowing in the unfairness of it all. Because Alzheimer’s is horrible and why, why would I have wished to prolong Dad’s illness just for my own needs? He lost everything and we had to stand by and watch it happen. While I would give anything to see his face or hear his laugh just one more time, I can’t deny he was so “weary, so wayworn why would I retard the peace that he sought in the old churchyard.”

And so, death was and is.

As I listen to these words, I still feel it’s not fair. For Dad’s body wasn’t yet ready to go, it’s just that his mind was and in the end it caused his body to be ready too. I know deep in my heart my Dad knew his fate, he knew and believed in the peace that awaited him. It gives some comfort to know his struggling body is at rest, his sleep is sweet, and his trials are over. 

With so much loss in the world right now, I don’t know about you but I feel weary and wayworn. Maybe you do too? Might we take hope that “one bright day, sunshine will burst through these prisons of clay”. Prisons of our own making, prisons of conflict with one another, prisons of disease and death. Then, it won’t even be about headstones and churchyards, it will simply be about sweet, everlasting peace with God.

 

Come, come with me to the old churchyard
I so well know these paths 'neath the soft green sward
Friends slumber in there that we want to regard
We will trace out their names in the old churchyard

Mourn not for them for their trials are o'er
Why weep for those who will weep no more?
For sweet is their sleep, though cold and hard
Their pillows may be in the old churchyard

I know it's vain when friends depart
To breathe kind words to a broken heart
And I know that the joy of life is marred
When we follow lost friends to the old churchyard

But were I at rest 'neath yonder tree
Why would you weep, my friends, for me?
I'm so weary, so wayworn, why would you retard
The peace that I seek in the old churchyard?

Why weep for me, for I'm anxious to go
To that haven of rest where no tears e'er flow?
And I fear not my fate when it's time to depart
I will sail with the sun in the old churchyard

I rest in the hope that one bright day
Sunshine will burst through these prisons of clay
And the trumpets will sound on the hills near and far
Will wake up the dead in the old churchyard