November: month of all saints and all souls…and visits to the cemetery. 
           Such visits, of course, are not limited to November. In my home region, the path to the front door of older churches often winds through the graveyard. Country parishes conduct rosary processions through their cemeteries on or near the Feast of All Souls. In some families, newly engaged couples are expected to visit the graves of their forebearers before sending out the “Save the Date” reminders for their wedding, a custom emphasizing the “unto death do us part” component of their upcoming vows. 
           The older I become, the more cemeteries I visit. I regret not cultivating this habit earlier in my life. Indeed, memories recalled in the presence of a grave carry deep and poignant meaning. The rosary carved in the granite of my grandparents’ gravestone, for instance, draws me back to their farmhouse kitchen where, each evening, prayers were offered in Plattdeutsch, followed by a gospel reading in regular German.  
           Not far from my grandparents’ graves lies the resting place of my parents. Each time I approach their headstone, my eyes scan the surrounding fields where, in the distance, I see the roofline of the barn on our homeplace, the same barn where guests square-danced on the night of my parents’ wedding. 
           In a cemetery, the abstract doctrine of the Communion of Saints becomes as solid as rock. 
           The next stop in my pilgrimage is the graveyard near a village named St. Rose. It is here where the recently dug grave of my sister, Marian, awaits a headstone. A wave of grief hits hard as I get in my truck and turn down a road where she and I rode bikes as kids. 
           When I arrive at St. Rose, I park near the church and make my way through a stone gate. In years past, farmers dug graves for their neighbors and there were no family plots. Parishioners were buried next to each other in the order that they died. 
           Communities were stronger back then.
           I make my way to patch of bare ground marked with a metal plate stamped with my sister’s name. On a slight knoll to my left looms a large crucifix. It's height is flanked by statues of St. John and the Sorrowful Mother. 
           Normally, I pray the Sorrowful Mysteries when visiting cemeteries. Today, however, I recite the Joyful Mysteries. I am certain that Mother Mary, hovering nearby, understands. My sister loved children and exulted in the joy of raising a large family. This was her vocation, her heartfelt offering to God.
           From St. Rose, I drive a short distance to St. Martin Cemetery outside a village called Osgood. Here another sister of mine, Alberta, lies buried alongside her oldest child who died in infancy. 
           As usual, a large crucifix dominates the landscape. In contrast to that of St. Rose, the old section of St. Martin's Cemetery contains open spaces. These vacant spots harken to a time when families purchased plots with enough space for five graves in order to accommodate the number of deaths likely to occur within the span of a marriage.  
           I frown at the thought, then kneel at Alberta’s grave and that of Gary, her son. Instead of retrieving the rosary from my pocket, I lift my cell phone to snap a picture of plastic flowers in a copper vase. I text it to my brother-in-law who resides in a nursing home. I wait for a reply but none ensues. This is not unusual, given his condition.   
           Exchanging the cell phone for my rosary and I bow my head end and kiss its crucifix. As I begin to finger the beads, my mind wanders from the steel chain to the twine rope that hung near the door of my childhood church. Attached to a bell in the tower, its assigned duty enabled the tolling of the number of years in the life of someone who had died. 
           I take a deep breath and begin to praying the Sorrowful Mysteries. Soon, memories of birthdays, sing-alongs and county fairs mingle with those of trembling hands, hospital beds and flowers adorning Alberta's casket, I remain kneeling, and whispering mysteries most painful, yet imbued with glorious hope beyond all words. 
           Twilight descends. Purple clouds hang like shawls in the western sky. I hear the chime of Angelus bells and close my eyes.
           The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.
           All saints. All souls. And all around, the hush of November. I trace the Sign of the Cross over the graves of my sister and nephew.
           Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. 
          I return to my truck and drive into the fading light.