Our theme for the month of June is “snapshots.” Writers were asked to submit a piece with a cover photo that they took or created.

We’ve always gone to the cemetery on Memorial Day. The one in our village sits at the fork in the road between one county paved road and another. These narrow paved strips don’t see much love from the township, which means that the asphalt is crumbling along each edge, longing to be one with weed-studded gravel berm. Annually on that Monday in May, we would load up and drive the half-mile distance to McLane cemetery where Dad walked us around quietly, and then read “In Flanders Fields” while we bowed our heads and tried to understand. 

Our family has been talking a lot about tradition these days, so much that my dad recently preached a sermon on the topic, with a full series on the topic slated for July. Our family is moving bravely into an increasingly kaleidoscopic worldview, fueled by open heartedness, curiosity, and a conviction that life is an expanding endeavor. Collectively, we’ve discarded some theological practices that felt heavy and poorly aligned with our evolving understanding of deity and spirit, of God and His kingdom. We’ve also redoubled our commitment to certain practices and traditions that have remained helpful in this season of change. 

As a now grown child, I can see how the traditions and practices shared by my parents created a tether that holds me on my pitching vessel in the waves and tumult of adventure. When I was young, I didn’t recognize the power of these spiritual and practical tethers, but their impact is clear now as I build my own life. Melting in the hot sun, I mostly resented being pulled from the pool or the shade of the trees. I didn’t grasp the significance of plodding around overgrown hydrangeas, but I think I do now.

There are four generations of Kellys and Coles in that cemetery. My great-great grandfather, Ebert Lamont Kelly and his wife, Virginia Grace are buried there, along with all of my great-grandparents, Alvin and Martha Kelly, Merle and Alice Cole. The Cole surname, my Grandmother’s maiden name, lives on in me: Ansley Cole. My grandfather’s sister, who was killed in a car accident with her infant son, is there too—she was a year younger than I am now. I have great uncles and aunts, people I didn’t know but whose name I carry out here in the world. 

The cemetery was somewhat neglected in recent years, and my dad, already stretched across multiple community commitments, took on the role of cemetery board president. I think he did it partly because our family is there, but more because he knows the importance of having a place to come back to. Communities need spaces and practices that elevate, inspire and return us to the threads of our past. As we press bravely into innovation, we need ways to connect meaningfully with what has already been. 

I recognize the incredible privilege of knowing my lineage, and the powerful gift of personal legacy. I grieve for the descendants of slavery, and for those adopted into new families, and those orphaned by circumstance who may not know their people on this side of heaven. When I picture the great cloud of witnesses, I can picture the Kellys and Coles and Andersons and Youngs who have gone ahead and before, and I feel their comfort and guidance and the responsibility of building on their work. This gift would be difficult to recognize or access without routined visits to a particular place, which I learned through the example of my parents. 

Beyond the lines of family, these visits also provide a powerful link to the stories of a community. Dad has heard these stories since he was a boy, and I’m glad that he is there to share them with us. As I walked with him over the newly mown grass, he stopped and told me about James Harrison, a second lieutenant in the 142nd Infantry. He was killed in Italy in 1944, and his family would wait over a year for his body to come home. Farther down the row, we stopped to honor Forest Ensign, a member of the 185th Infantry, who was killed in the Philippines at the very end of the war. And finally, we paused at the headstone of Dale Francis, a twenty-three year old pilot who went down in the English Channel during a training exercise in 1944. 

These men and their stories are forever bound to this place, and through a shared, very small corner of the wide world, I feel that I owe them a life well lived. As we become more transient and mobile, and as “leaving the nest” means moving across the country instead of moving across the street, I worry about the loss of these powerful connections. I worry that we will forget that our lives are little links in a big chain, and that we do indeed stand on the shoulders of giants and in the company of saints. 

Practically, I worry that people won’t take care of the cemeteries. I worry that we will stop honoring the precious few places that remain for true reflection and remembrance because in our new cities, we feel no connection to the earth. I think there are important questions here about the scope of our lives and the generational impacts of our increasing transience. I’m personally wondering if a life well lived means positioning myself to care for the place I’ll one day be buried. Maybe ritual is enough. Maybe returning annually is enough to feed the roots, but what I know for certain is that if I am to live a life of true bravery, humility, and purpose, I need the roots.

Ansley Kelly

Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.