Today we wandered around the cemetery, reading the sketchy inscriptions that sum up a person's life. When they were born, when they died, who they married, the names of their children--and occasionally a bit more.
My heart ached for the many parents who buried children who died too young and the children who were left motherless.
I stood before the grave of a woman who bore nine children before she buried her husband somewhere in Ohio on the Pioneer Trail. She married again, and had four more children with that husband--and again, death left her a widow. She married a third time--a brother perhaps, since the last two husbands shared the same last name--and gave birth to one more child.
Fourteen children.
All, without a dishwasher or microwave, without a washer or dryer, without a phone or refrigerator, without a car or indoor plumbing.
Today I feel humbled, and a little more grateful.
