Giggling in the Cemetery

Three little stories to celebrate our son Thomas’ birthday.

The worst day of my life could have been the day that Thomas died. Or maybe it was the day we buried him because it was then that I knew I’d never see my son again. But perhaps, it could have been the day after the funeral when all the busyness was over, and I was alone with my sorrow. Would I survive? Could I move forward and live the rest of my life without Thomas?

One of the happiest days of my life was definitely the day Thomas was born. After months of grief and fear, I finally got to meet our precious child.

It’s strange how our best days are often bound closely to our worst ones. Sometimes we can’t have one without the other.

Difficult days aren’t all bad. They present us with unique learning opportunities, ones that we would never ask for but ones we need. Where would we be if we could arrange perfect lives for ourselves? Who would we be?

What sort of person would I be if I’d never known Thomas? Would I have less compassion? Would I still want to be in control and not know much about trust? Certainly, I’d still be pleading, “I’m too weak!” Perhaps I wouldn’t have discovered the miracle of love. Would I be a different person?

Monday 9 November was Thomas’ 21st birthday.  The following day was his death day. And then it was the anniversary of his funeral when we said goodbye and laid him in the ground.

A few days ago, we visited the cemetery. As we always do, we arranged fresh flowers on Thomas’ grave, I took lots of photos, and then we had a picnic. It was a beautifully warm evening full of golden sunshine.

It was also full of love.

Years ago, I read about unschoolers who were travelling the world. Others were exploring Australia in their campervans. Some families were living in exciting homes such as yurts. And others were trying to be self-sufficient on their farms.

We lived in a conventional house on an ordinary-sized block of land on the edge of a small town.

I wondered if our life was rich enough. Perhaps we weren’t offering our kids enough learning experiences. How were they going to change the world if we continued to live an ordinary life?

So, I nagged my dear husband until he agreed to move us all to a tumbledown cottage on a fish farm in the middle of nowhere. We were going to have an adventure, follow a dream, have experiences not many people get to have.

Things didn’t turn out as I’d hoped. We battled rats, snakes, poor soil, and a lack of water. But adventures aren’t meant to be easy, so we didn’t give up. But one day, our unborn baby was diagnosed with an ‘abnormality incompatible with life’, and suddenly an exciting, rich life no longer seemed important. We moved back to town to be close to the hospital.

As I wrote in my book Radical Unschool Love:

‘…Some months later, our son was born. We called him Thomas. He lived for a day… soon we realised that we were having experiences that nobody would ever ask for. We were learning things we didn’t want to know about, such as how to arrange a funeral and what to inscribe on a headstone. We also learnt about the things that matter: what life and love are all about.

And we discovered that it’s not important whether we live in a yurt or a campervan or a tumbledown cottage on a fish farm or an ordinary house in town. As long as we love. It’s love that enriches our lives. It’s what our kids need to experience. It’s love that will change the world… Yurts and farms and campervans are perfect for some people but not for us.

We no longer live in town, but we still live in a conventional house situated on an average-sized block. It’s our home. It’s where we unschool. It’s where we experience unconditional love.’

After we’d buried Thomas, and his funeral was over, our children dispersed throughout the cemetery. My nearly five-year-old daughter Imogen and her friends skipped between the graves, giggling as they gathered bouquets of faded plastic flowers. Parents frowned, but the disapproving looks couldn’t suppress the giggles, a touch of beauty, a joyful sound on that very dark sorrowful day.

Recently, we celebrated Thomas’ birthday with a picnic at the cemetery. Once again, my heart hurt as I stood by our son’s grave and remembered how we’d said goodbye as his coffin disappeared from sight. But I also felt joy as I soaked up the delights of a warm golden-light evening spent with some members of my family.

While I was taking photos of my husband and three of our girls eating pizza and being silly, I asked myself: is it okay to giggle in a cemetery? Of course, the answer is yes. Sorrow doesn’t stand alone among the headstones. There’s also love and hope. Eventually, joy wraps itself around our grief.

When life is difficult,

when we’re overloaded and can’t cope,

when we’re tired and have no time for ourselves,

when we’re sick,

when we’ve got problems that we don’t know how to solve,

when we’re worried,

when we feel alone and abandoned,

when we’re grieving for someone we love,

when we don’t know if we will survive,

perhaps if we look carefully, we’ll notice little delights that lift our hearts, God’s gifts of hope:

Gorgeous little girls flitting amongst the graves with their faded flowers, giggling.