DO NOT STAND AT MY GRAVE AND WEEP...

Death is never easy; the ache of missing a loved one is a constant void. There is a loneliness that no one can fill. And it has nothing to do with the strength of one's religious beliefs, which (for me) has been a constant support system...especially in the painful days when my mind was trying to adjust to the reality of death.

It is the physical absence of that person -- their smile, the sound of their voice and laughter, or the simple gesture of a loving hand reaching out to squeeze yours. The certain faith you had that one day you would be reunited in the hereafter can often seem like a dream shrouded in mist.

More often than not, you find yourself wishing you could call them on the phone, or have just one more moment with them...right now.

At the very least, you wish for some spectral sign or physical evidence that they have not abandoned you in death.

Today is one of those days for me, because it is my mother's birthday. So, naturally, the date does give me pause. Memories rush forward, the void deepens in my heart, and I am forced to deal with the reality that I still find difficult to face. She isn't here anymore. And, today, I find myself stunned to realize it has been seven years since her death. In fact, when I stop to think of the days, months, and years that have passed, I almost feel as if I have been in a state of suspended animation. Seven years?! Why does it still hurt so?

I spent the morning surrounded by memories and not knowing what to do. Driving to Dallas and visiting her grave was usually my ritual, but today the thought of standing there, weeping for the wonderful parent I had lost, seemed too painful. So, I thought it would be better to remember her in a different way, perhaps prepare one of her recipes for my family for dinner, then share our memories of her.

I went to one of her recipe boxes--crammed packed with 3x5 recipe cards, all neatly and painstakingly handwritten. Most were familiar, delicious recipes she had made for us over the years; some I had not seen before. And then, wedged between Boston Brown Bread and Date Nut Bread, I found it...something she'd clipped out of a newspaper...something that stirred a distant memory...something she loved. It wasn't a recipe, but a poem.

As I read it, it seemed as if it could be a sign from Mom--something important she wanted to tell me. The words touched my heart like a warm embrace, prompting me to find out more about the poem and its author, Mary E. Frye.

Born 13 November 1905 in Dayton, Ohio, by the time Mary Elizabeth Clark was three years old, she was an orphan. Years later, when she was 12 years old, she moved to Baltimore, Maryland. Her life is somewhat shrouded in obscurity. We know in 1927 she married Claud Frye, a clothing retailer. In addition to being a housewife, Mary was a mother and florist, In fact, she grew the flowers she sold. Although not formally educated, she had a lifelong love of reading and writing. But it was not until 1932 when something compelled her to write this poem.

Back in 1932, America was still struggling with the economic crisis of The Great Depression, whilst far away in Germany an inflamed ideology had begun its terrifying, monstrous course. Despite the fact Adolph Hitler had failed to win the election as President, the first volume of his radical, anti-semetic manifesto, Mein Kamp (published 1925) and his unrelenting efforts to resurrect the Nazi Party of 1919 had taken root. More than that, the Nazi Party was rapidly growing and so was Hitler's power.

Meanwhile, back in Baltimore, Mary and Claud Frye happened to have a young woman named Margaret Schwarzkopf boarding with them. Born in Germany and Jewish, Margaret was not only frantic about the hostility and violence being directed at Jews in Germany, but heartsick that she had not been able to return to her homeland to be with her dying mother. According to Mary E. Frye, an inconsolable Margaret stated that she "never even had the chance to stand by her mother's grave and shed a tear." A sympathetic Mary E. Frye--no doubt also reminded of having grown up without her parents--felt compelled to write down her thoughts.
Using a piece of brown wrapping paper, Frye said the words "just came to her". She made copies of the poem about life and death, then privately shared it with others in pain, mourning the loss of a loved one. Soon, the verse became popular across the country and around the world. It has since been read at public and private funerals, and printed on bereavement cards and in newspapers. Its comforting message transcended boundaries of race, religion or nationality.

In 1995, the poem was read on a BBC television program called BOOKWORM, whereupon more than 30,000 British viewers requested a copy. A year later, BOOKWORM held a poll in Britain, and the poem was voted, "The Nation's Favourite Poem". When one takes into account that Britain is the homeland of legendary poets, such as Lord Byron, Chaucer, Keats, among others, to have Mary Frye's poem selected as the favorite clearly conveys the significance of its impact within the hearts and minds of people.

The poem has also been featured at national memorial services, such as the memorial for the 1988 Lockerbie bombing, and for the 9/11 terrorist attack in New York City. [Pictured below: 20th Anniversary Memorial Service for Victims and Families of the 1988 bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 - Lockerbie, Scotland - Photo by: Jeff J. Mitchell]


Ironically, until the 1990s, no one knew the identity of the person who wrote this poem. It was when others started claiming authorship of the uncopyrighted piece, and even that it originated as a Native American work, that Mary Frye finally stepped forward publicly. Her claim was carefully researched and verified by none other than Abigail Van Buren (syndicated newspaper columnist 'Dear Abby') in 1998.

Like Margaret Mitchell (author of Gone With The Wind who never had anything else published), Mary continued to write poetry, but her greatest achievement would remain her poem, "Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep". Mary was 98 years old when she took her last breath on September 15, 2004, and is survived by her daughter. And yet, I'm sure you will agree, she also lives on each time her poem is read or spoken, continuing to touch the lives of others.

Over time, others have made revisions to her words, a small change here and there, and even an additional verse in 2007 for a movie based on the poem. You may have even seen one of those versions before. However, I want to share with you the original 16-line poem that Mary Elizabeth Frye wrote in 1932.

What I love about it is the fact that it reminds us to celebrate the life of those we loved who have passed on. And remember when I said how much I often wish for a sign from my mother she is still near? I realize the sign I have been waiting for these past seven years has surrounded me every moment of every day, no matter where I am or where I go. The simple truth is: Those we love never truly die. They are still with us; you just have to look for the signs.

Happy Birthday, Mom! ~ AKB

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Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamonds glint on snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,
I am the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room,
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die."

~ Mary F. Frye (1932)

"AND THE ROCKETS' RED GLARE..." FRANCIS SCOTT KEY AND HIS POEM

On this day (Sep 13) 1814, a lawyer named Francis Scott Key wrote a poem entitled ‘In Defense of Fort McHenry’. During the War of 1812, one of Key’s friends had been taken prisoner by the British and was being held aboard a ship in Maryland. Key traveled to Baltimore, located the ship and began negotiations for the release of Dr. William Beanes. While on board, the British began an attack by sea of Fort McHenry, and refused to allow Key or Beanes to leave. As a result, Key had to witness Fort McHenry being bombarded repeatedy from a British ship approximately 8 miles away.

All day and all night, the assault continued until, unable to destroy the fort, the British finally gave up. Greatly moved by the sight of a lone American flag still flying above the battered fort at daybreak, Key immortalized his feelings of pride and love for his country in a poem. The poem was published in newspapers and became enormously popular with the public. Later, the words were set to music composer John Stafford Smith’s song, “To Anacreon in Heaven”. Soon, the public began referring to the stirring, patriotic song as “The Star Spangled Banner”.

In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson announced it should be played at all official events. THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER was officially pronounced by Congress to be the national anthem for the United States on 03 March 1931, 116 years after it was first written.

Today, the original flag during the battle at Fort McHenry in 1814 can be seen at the Smithsonian Institution’s Museum of American History in Washington, D.C.

REMEMBERING 9-11

Remembering 9-11-01 and the senseless tragedy of those who were lost; the promise of unfulfilled hopes and dreams, and what we all lose when good, innocent people are taken too soon. For their families and friends, and for all the unborn descendants who might have been, may God bless the memories of those fallen and give strength and comfort to us all. ~ Ashley Kath-Bilsky

If Tomorrow Never Comes

If I knew it would be the last time
that I’d see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly
and pray the Lord, your soul to keep.

If I knew it would be the last time
that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and kiss
and call you back for one more.

If I knew it would be the last time
I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise,
I would video tape each action and word,
so I could play them back day after day.

If I knew it would be the last time,
I could spare an extra minute or two
to stop and say “I love you,”
instead of assuming you would KNOW I do.

If I knew it would be the last time
I would be there to share your day,
well I’m sure you’ll have so many more,
so I can let just this one slip away.

For surely there’s always tomorrow
to make up for an oversight,
and we always get a second chance
to make everything right.

There will always be another day
to say our “I love you’s,”
And certainly there’s another chance
to say our “Anything I can do’s?”

But just in case I might be wrong,
and today is all I get,
I’d like to say how much I love you
and I hope we never forget,

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone,
young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance
you get to hold your loved one tight.

So if you’re waiting for tomorrow,
why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes,
you’ll surely regret the day,

That you didn’t take that extra time
for a smile, a hug, or a kiss
and you were too busy to grant someone,
what turned out to be their one last wish.

So hold your loved ones close today,
whisper in their ear,
Tell them how much you love them
and that you’ll always hold them dear,

Take time to say “I’m sorry,” “please forgive me,”
“thank you” or “it’s okay”.
And if tomorrow never comes,
you’ll have no regrets about today.

~ Unknown

"THE GRAVEYARD QUILT"

There are many ways to pass family history down from generation to generation. For some, it is the old Family Bible. For others, it could be an oral history from a grandmother to her grandchild, or boxes of mementos and old photographs tucked away in an attic. Well, I just read a fascinating article in my monthly DAR magazine about “The Graveyard Quilt”. No, this isn’t a festive Halloween quilt to bring out each October. In 1836, a woman named Elizabeth Roseberry Mitchell began stitching a quilt in memory of her two-year old son, John, who had just died. In 1843, she added another son who had died at the age of 19. What’s so unusual about her quilt is that it features a graveyard in the center; on the top is where the graveyard is located in Monroe County, Ohio. At first, the macabre, almost Tim Burton look to it, made me sad. I had never seen such a depressing looking quilt. I wanted to learn why this woman chose such a depressing way to remember her family.

Apparently, when the family moved to Ohio, she wanted to make sure that no one forgot where these boys were buried. So, from a mourning perspective, Elizabeth used a talent she possessed to not only remember her deceased children but document family history for future descendants. It became more than just a quilt, but a genealogical and historical artifact.

As the family grew, Elizabeth felt the quilt had ‘design flaws’. She started another quilt, using the original quilt top as a practice piece. This practice quilt top now resides in the Highlands Museum and Discovery Center in Ashland, Kentucky. The second, finished quilt (pictured below) is part of the Kentucky Historical Society’s Thomas D. Clark History Center in Frankfort, Kentucky. To quote the article, “Together they are nationally known to be the only existing graveyard quilt top and quilt.”

I appreciate the love and sentimentality Elizabeth crafted into her quilt, although I must amit the method of keeping up the quilt bothers me. You see, when a child was born into the family (a joyous occasion usually filled with happiness and hope for their future), a black, eight-sided coffin was immediately added to this quilt around the outer edge. When death occurred, these coffins would be removed from that edge and reapplied into the graveyard area, located in the center. The death date would also be embroidered. I can see the practicality in having a set procedure for the family quit, but it is rather gruesome…at least to me.

On the subject of quilts, I LOVE quilts, and even took a quilting class years ago. I love the design, various materials and colors incorporated, as well as the definite talent and patience quilters have. Unfortunately, I lack patience. When I start something, I want to zip through it or I get bored. So, not a quilter do I make! However, my grandmother and great-grandmother made quilts all the time. I recently found a letter from my great-grandmother to my grandmother written in pencil during the Great Depression where she mentioned how hard it was to come by cotton and material for her quilting projects. So, she was going to make a wool quilt for one of her sons. I also have some quilt tops that were projects my grandmother worked on with her mother and her sisters. I remember my mother pointing out to me material that had once been used in childhood outfits of hers or how ‘that fabric came from the kitchen window curtains”. She could even identify what stitching belonged to her grandmother, her mother and each aunt. Like the brush stroke of a great artist, she knew each person’s style. The thing is, I knew by the way my mom talked about these quilts that this was more than a blanket, or bits of old fabric fashioned into a design. A family activity between a mother and her grown daughters had become part of that family’s history…and the beginning of my interest in preserving family history.

For over twenty years now, I have been researching family history, thrilled when I come upon an old photo, a piece of documentation about an ancestor, or a hand-written letter from my great-grandmother that gives so much insight into ‘who’ she was as a person. For anyone doing genealogical research, you run into so many road blocks that it can be discouraging. It saddens me to think of the artifacts and records destroyed over time, sometimes deliberately. Let’s just say, don’t bring up the name General Sherman in my presence!

So, searching for any article of family history becomes a personal quest. Finding what I like to call a “puzzle piece” is more than just a reward for the hard work that often took years to find. That piece becomes almost sacred because it helps to complete the family picture, and even moreso when it is something that was held or crafted by an ancestor.

Apart from the artwork and design of quilts, there is often a family legacy in the finished project. For me, it is the visual I still get of my grandmother, her sisters, and my great-grandmother all sitting around together and sewing a quilt while their children play outdoors. I picture them laughing and talking about life and their families. It is MY connection to that moment in time and I feel even more a part of them. So, when I read about The Graveyard Quilt, although my initial reaction was the sadness involved by picturing this woman sitting down and adding cloth coffins, I also admire her passion to preserve the history of her family. Granted, the procedure she followed would have been too emotional and fatalistic for me. There is no way that when a child was born in my family, I would have felt right about making a cloth coffin for them to put on the family quilt. BUT, for Elizabeth Roseberry Mitchell, her initial process of mourning became a passionate desire to maintain family history and remembrance of all who passed on in her family…and it was done perhaps the only way she knew how — through quilting. The end result, family history was preserved.

After 174 years, though quilters today may be impressed by Elizabeth’s ”traditional layout of a center medallion surrounded by blocks of alternating 8-pointed stars and black printed fabric”, for anyone who has spent hours and years searching for one clue about their ancestors, “The Graveyard Quilt” (macabre as it may seem) is a tangible artifact and sacred history for any descendants of Elizabeth Roseberry Mitchell — as well as an example of an unusual and innovative way to document a family tree.



NOTE: The above represents personal opinions of Ashley Kath-Bilsky based on an article entitled, “The Graveyard Quilt” by Gaylord Cooper, featured in American Spirit Magazine, Daughters of the American Revolution, September/October 2010

PERSEVERANCE....

Today, while recovering from surgery, I watched some old news reel footage of London after the bombings of World War II. I had heard stories about the Blitz and what the people of England endured. I will be honest, much of what I remember from World War II was from history books or the occassional film like Mrs. Miniver. Yet, there is something to be said about watching actual film footage and how a picture is truly worth a thousand words. The above photograph of St. Paul's Cathedral (standing proudly in the London dawn after another night's bombing) is one such photo.

The photograph is so powerful -- dramatic and beautiful, evoking not just the frightening asepct of war and the devastation it wrought upon London and its people, but also the hope and faith of a new day and the promise that within each of us is the capacity to withstand trials and tribulations -- whether they are physical or social. Within the very fiber of our beings is this iron will capacity for determination and strength to greet the dawn with courage and a keen desire to persevere.

I have given a great deal of thought of late to perseverance and find it such a admirable yet often overlooked trait each of us possesses. Very much an unspoken hero, PERSEVERANCE emanates from our soul. It is a constant friend in times of despair or uncertainty. It is that little voice whispering 'you can do it'. At times we forget its importance in our lives and may even question if it is an attribute we possess to any degree. We often admire others for their courage and fail to realize that it exists in all of us, though we may not see it. After all, it is usually only when dire circumstances occur that we give it any particular attention.

Each of us prays for courage when tested by life or faced with a mountain we fear we may not be able to climb, a storm we may not be able to weather. What I have come to recognize is that courage and perseverance go hand-in-hand, prompted and strengthened by faith as well as the undeniable essence that makes us human beings. True, it is perseverance which encourages us to believe in peace over war, goodness over evil, and that light WILL conquer darkness...always. But it is also there in times of quiet introspection and day-to-day living.

The quality of perseverance is what enables a preschooler to learn how to tie their shoe. It is the steadfast spotter willing us to practice a sport until one is skilled and proficient at it. It is the silent voice of your spirit which encourages you to write that book, paint a picture, or participate in a charity run. And like those proud Brits who endured the Blitz, perseverance enabled them to work together and not only survive the ravages of war, but rebuild their beautiful and historic London. Perseverance has been with us since time began and continues to endure, sometimes against all odds. It desires nothing more than to help people achieve their potential and face challenges all over the world. Whether that challenge is the pursuit of education, a career goal, financial stability, or physical health -- we must all recognize and be grateful for its existence and guidance.

Today, I recognize its presence in my life as a benevolent blessing to the spirit of man from God, and a silent friend who has not only walked beside me during some very dark moments but encouraged me to prevail. I am thankful that as I get older, the need to persevere and face life's challenges has not diminished but become stronger. At the same time I am reminded of the saying that it isn't the destination that is important, but the journey itself. After all, there are times when despite our courage and perseverance we may not achieve the outcome we desire. Some dreams will remain elusive. Yet, the outcome should NOT diminish the effort. It is taking that first step...no matter the odds...that helps us to grow individually and collectively, to learn not only about the world but what we are capable of doing for the greater good, and to understand perserverance is truly the silent voice of God deep inside us willing us to believe in the impossible and make wondrous things happen.



AKB