My friend looks up toward the trees and says I had forgotten how graceful dying can sometimes be.
I follow her glance and know that she is right. I, too, have forgotten. I remember autumn through snapshots. Which means, I remember the brilliance of that one sugar maple down the road. Or, I remember the startling red of a Burning Bush shrub against a deep blue sky.
The snapshots help me to remember true moments, fiery moments, but they do not give an accurate picture of the whole.
Autumn, taken as a whole, does not look like clear, bright brilliance. Here in my corner of Pennsylvania, it is gentle. Faded. It is burnished gold and copper. It is gray clouds and wet pavement.
This autumn world does not rage against the dying of the light. It smolders, quietly. Gracefully.
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This time of year, it seems Christians like to talk about Halloween on the internet. I tend to abstain from those “conversations.” So much depends upon context. Like the context of our own memories. Like the context of our own communities. Often, the internet is a conversation without a context.
Here is a bit of mine.
In the church of my childhood, Halloween was ever-so-slightly taboo. We wore costumes, but we wore them to collect candy at our church’s “Harvest Fair.”
As new parents, we discovered the great adventure of escorting a tempermental two-year-old ladybug down city streets. We stole her candy when she wasn’t watching, and we hugged our neighbors. We tried to catch the eye of their over-tired Dorothy or Scarecrow. To tell each one we had no idea it was them.
Still, decorating my home for Halloween always seemed like a step too far. Until we came here. Now we live in the farmhouse on the hill and how else can we entice our neighbors and their children to climb our hill, to receive our gift of love and candy, but with a few smiling ghosts and candle-lit pumpkins?
Context. It changes things.
Changes us.
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We live in a culture that largely ignores death. Our children no longer walk to church through churchyards dotted with graves.
Our own church is that rare thing with its own cemetery, but it is all the way around by the back door. My children often ask to walk that way, but I am in a hurry. Another time, I say, as I rush them through the front door.
I am sorry for this. And so, this year, I am grateful for Halloween. I am grateful for the space it opens up. I am less grateful for the gory zombie poster set at a child’s eye level at the local Wal Mart, but mostly I am grateful for the opportunity to talk about death. About dying. About our baptism and what it might mean that we have already died with Christ.
Which is, to say, we will have a conversation about living.
Soon, we will bring out the plywood grave markers my husband made last year. Our kids painted them gray with black crosses and the letters R I P. We will tuck them near the crumbling stone foundations of the old farm buildings, and we will drape them with twinkly lights.
As we outline a path for candy-seeking neighbors, my daughter will ask me again about those letters R I P. And as darkness settles, and the lights begin to flicker and gain strength, she will tell me It’s beautiful, Mom. So beautiful.
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What a tender soul you are Christie. Loved it . . .
Thanks for this Christy!! Oh death, where is your sting!! Alleluia!
So lovely and thought-provoking, Christie. Thank you.
I like your perspective here.
Fondly,
Glenda
So moving for me, the thoughts, the pieces of family life you shared in this, and the photographs. Thanks and as I read this I think I would be amiss not to say thanks to your entire family for this post.
Thank you, Dan.
Lovely, Christie. Truly. Halloween was never problematic for me and I decorated a lot – not usually gravestones, but lots of other fun stuff. When we moved to Santa Barbara, Halloween stopped – no one comes to houses set far back from the street with no sidewalks and no streetlights. In our previous neighborhood, we had about 150-200 kids every year and I missed it when we came here. Not so much now, I’ll admit. I kind of like not having to jump up every 2 minutes to answer the door. 🙂
Good point, Diana! I think once my kids are old enough, candy distribution will become their job. 🙂
I’ve never been a real fan of Halloween. I just get through it. I bowed to peer pressure when my kids were little and made their costumes and spent $50 on my grand girl’s Bat Girl get-up the other day–and then tacked in seams and tacked down tucks and fixed it to her specifications for her to wear for two hours. I’m a party pooper.
But… I love cemeteries. We often walk in our local one which is hilly and tree-filled and gorgeous in the fall. We stop at new headstones to remember and at old ones to reflect.
And your photos are stunning. And your words could make me think twice next year. 🙂
I admit, Sandra, negotiating costume demands from my children turns me into a party pooper, too. 😉 But I do share your love for cemeteries. Grief and death are terrible things, but the peace and beauty of a graveyard speaks such hope.
My thoughts echo Larry and Tracy. And yes, I too LOOOOOOVVVVEEEEE your photos. And I loved seeing tea party in KS photos too. Love your mom as well.
Thanks for being here, Sue!