A knight’s perspective
By Mike Langlois
Contributing writer
For as long as I can remember, I have felt compelled — or even called — to visit cemeteries. People today may view these spaces with detached curiosity or avoid them unless they are visiting a loved one. I find them to be peaceful havens that link me to the souls who have passed.
It is hard to estimate how many cemeteries I have visited; suffice it to say, I have lost count. Traveling extensively for work has allowed me to explore a diverse array of New England burial grounds, each with unique characteristics that reflect the local community. As a history enthusiast, I appreciate the cultural significance these sacred spots offer. People who travel regularly for work quickly notice that towns share similar features such as town halls, schools, and local businesses; however, it is the cemetery that remains a constant. Even when smaller rural communities lack modern services, they never lack hallowed ground to honor their ancestors.
There is a strange kind of peace in cemeteries, and my comfort is knowing that someday I will rest among the faithful. For me, the most intriguing cemeteries are not the famous landmarks; rather, they are the ones stumbled upon by chance while driving down forgotten dirt roads. A small plot of land nestled between evergreens and oaks, surrounded by an old wrought iron fence, offering spectacular views of rolling hills and distant mountains. Preserved by dedicated local caretakers, these sites may not have seen a burial in over 150 years. Look closely at the weathered granite and marble markers, and it will reveal the entire history of the town. The surname etched in stone — French, English, Irish, or German — reflects the heritage of the first settlers. There is also a darker tale in the scars of cholera, smallpox, and influenza; the outbreaks that struck with no regard to age, wealth, or status. If you try, you can picture a family gathered around a grave, listening attentively as the preacher delivers the funeral rites. Once the ceremony concludes, they climb into their single-horse-drawn buggy and head home to carry on with their lives as best they can. In the 19th century, it was customary for families to personalize their loved ones’ headstones. For a child, the inscription might read: “This lovely bud, so young and fair, Called hence by early doom; Just came to show how sweet a flower, In paradise would bloom.”
Occasionally, the person afflicted with an illness would pen their own epitaph before dying: “Affliction sore long time I bore, Physicians were in vain; Till God did please to give me ease, And take away my pain.” The large number of young souls in these grounds and the widespread sorrow felt by families, some many times over, is heartbreaking.
Whenever I enter a cemetery, I feel a change — a sense that ordinary time, with its past, present, and future, fades away. It seems a part of me longs to experience the “eternal now,” a way of being that exists beyond the boundaries of time, like God’s existence. Instead of seeing countless headstones, I feel the presence of the souls in the hallowed place. My mind races with questions: Did they follow Christian traditions — were they baptized, did they accept Jesus Christ, receive Anointing of the Sick, or die in a state of grace? As Thomas à Kempis, in The Imitation of Christ, once wrote, “Every action of yours, every thought, should be those of one who expects to die before the day is out.” My thoughts go beyond ordinary existence — the invisible veil — to the souls awaiting redemption in purgatory. These souls experience an internal burning fire of love — for God — which rages until that soul is detached from sin. The Catholic Church teaches that prayers, especially the Holy Mass, can ease the purifying suffering of the souls and hasten their journey into heaven. We can take comfort in those saints who received the grace of witness to this divine reality. St. Faustina, in a vision she recorded in her diary, described purgatory as a “misty place full of fire” containing a great crowd of suffering souls who are unable to help themselves. According to tradition, the Blessed Virgin Mary told St. Bridget of Sweden, “I am the mother of all souls in purgatory; and all the suffering they endure is alleviated in some measure every hour by my prayers.” When I pray, whether it is the Holy Rosary or the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, I envision Mary receiving my prayers into her Immaculate Heart, where they are lovingly dispensed to the suffering souls. Whether souls in purgatory can pray for us remains a topic of theological debate, though many find the idea reassuring.
We tend to live our lives as if we have endless time to “get it right.” The next time you pass by a cemetery, take a moment to reflect on the souls who once lived and breathed. They, like you, faced a wide range of emotions that shaped their time in this world. The only difference is that their decisions are irrevocable, and the choices you make — while there is time — can impact how your soul is received after death.
