Once Was Lost(Gerald R Gioglio) There are no coincidences in the universe, only convergences of Will, Intent, and Experience. — Neale Donald Walsch

We entered the wrong gate. Who knew there was more than one.
Then again, it had been years since either my daughter Dawn or I visited the graves of my parents and grandparents—her “Granny” and “Pop” and maternal great grandparents. But, on my visit to New Jersey, we agreed that stopping to reconnect with deceased family members would be an important part of our agenda.

Granny and Pop died in the 1980s, joining my grandparents in the same resting place. I admit, over the next 30-odd years I visited all too infrequently. Regrettably, I let family, job and life take priority; it seemed like all things involved in building a life conspired against finding time to come, be nostalgic and pray.

I’ve heard that after three generations, the memory that the deceased once walked this earth fades. Sadly, their lives, love and passing ultimately exceeds the reach of oral tradition, recollection and heart. All too often, gravesites become unvisited, abandoned and ultimately forgotten.

Looking around, you could not escape the truth of this assertion. Here, this day as every day, the forgotten were legion, as descendants moved on with all things human and alive. Sadly, I realized that unless my grandson took to visiting, when my daughter and I were gone, the graves of our ancestors would join the forgotten masses. But not today. We brought roses to place on the gravesite and were determined to find and reconnect with them.

In the back of my mind, I recalled my boyhood and young adult visits, simply driving in, taking the first right and parking the car. I vaguely remembered some sort of monument that towered over the graves of three priests. From there it was a short walk to our family’s gravesite. But what monument? There were masses of them; crosses, statuary and cherubs of all types marked the grounds silently vying for attention.

But this day, we entered the wrong gate. And on this ninety-degree, muggy New Jersey day, we came across a sign indicating the tiny cemetery office was closed the very day we were there. I realized we were hopelessly lost in this land of crumbling memorials, wistfulness and anticipation.

As we searched, I paused, not just to get my bearings, but for the first time, to take a minute to see, hear and feel the place. St. Peter’s graveyard was vast--generations old--with faded, molded, blackened and fragile gravestones dating back pre-civil war. When walking the grounds, despite being next to a busy county highway, it seemed like a tranquil silence enveloped both earth and sky. The leaves on the trees flickered back and forth in the light breeze, seemingly going from an intense green to a silvery reflection of sunlight.

Then too, I felt the spiritual power of this place; understanding that love was not only interred here but oscillated throughout the area. Love, like you see in the eyes of your baby, hear in the sighs of your lover, feel when entering an empty church, temple, mosque, or other sacred space. A mystical love I felt in Ireland when visiting an ancient Druid burial ground, feeling the aura and realizing I walked among the holy.

Returning from this moment of mindfulness I realized Dawn and I had split up, each now in our own sector, searching for the graves of our family. My daughter called over when spotting gravesites with familiar family names, but these were descendants—distant uncles and cousins. And I wasn’t surprised, eight of my grandparent’s children survived to adulthood and each succeeding generation had increased and multiplied.

Squinting through the sunlight, I saw an older blue car leisurely winding its way through the cemetery, periodically stopping along the outer ring of the access roads. My immediate thought was the man behind the wheel was also lost. But taking a closer look, I noticed sometimes he just sat there staring. At us…?

Moving along I kept searching the headstones and markers; frustrated and determined, I turned to prayerfully petitioning my parents, “Come-on Pop! Show us the way. Granny where are you?” Later I found out my daughter was doing the same. Soon, the mid-level bureaucrat in me decided to bypass the ancestors and go right to the top with a standard mantra I use for finding things lost and misplaced, “God knows. God shows.”

Several long minutes later I heard my Dawn calling excitingly from across the way, “Dad, Dad, come here!” She was standing outside the driver side of the blue car I saw earlier. As I jogged toward them, she was leaning over, conversing with the driver.

When I got there, Dawn quickly informed me that this man was familiar with the names of people from our extended family. Bending down to speak with the fellow, I see a very elderly man behind the wheel with facial features that brought back shadowy memories of a person I thought I recognized from the distant past.

I introduced myself, but he drew a blank. When I asked, he said his last name was “Carroll.”

I said, “Hey, that name is familiar, what your first name?” “Billy,” he said, “Billy Carroll.” And with that the memories came flooding back. Billy Carroll had married my cousin Nancy in 1955. Indeed, as a boy I was close to Nancy and interacted with her and Billy many times in my youth. So, even though he no longer remembered me, of course he would know some extended family names.

I also knew Billy and Nancy Carroll became the caretakers of St. Peter’s graveyard in 1979. Nancy passed in 2004, but the now 87-year-old Billy Carroll told me he was still the caretaker of the cemetery!

Although I hadn’t seen him since the 1980s, here he was, the same day we arrived, driving around the cemetery. It was his day off and the office was closed, but he was patrolling the grounds, checking things out and helping poor lost souls, like us, locate their deceased loved ones. I was both shocked and gratified by this unexpected encounter.

After some small talk, he took down our complicated last name and drove a very short distance to the tiny, two-room office to look up the gravesite. The location of that office jogged my memory and I realized we were close. I soon stumbled on something that looked familiar. The gravesite of the three departed priests! Right, it was marked by a black cross that towered over the site. I knew we were only a few steps away from the grave.

And suddenly, there it was, our family’s resting place. Finally, we were all reunited, in transcendent communion. We muttered some small talk, said our prayers and placed our roses on the gravestone.

Mr. Carroll had still not returned so we decided to walk the short distance to the shed to share our good news. When we entered the tiny shack, I noticed there wasn't a computer in sight. Everything was recorded on paper. The vertical surfaces in both rooms were covered with folders and binders. No wonder the poor old fellow was having a difficult time finding our information. However, once we discussed it further, he thumbed through a binder and proudly handed us a slip that read “Saint Charles Section, plots 24 and 25.”

We shook hands and I thanked him for his help. Indeed, his interaction with us, at the place where he stopped to help Dawn, focused our search and led us to the right path. We parted ways and I watched as he shuffled to his car, once again to patrol the grounds and direct other lost souls to the gravesites of their loved ones.

I hear folks say, “There are no coincidences.” And I ponder.

I learn Albert Einstein once wrote, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” And I smile.

THE END
© 2022, Gerald R Gioglio

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