Life in a Cemetery Office

“Working in your office, helping families, has been therapeutic.”

– Krysal Irvin

Krysal said that this morning. I’d never thought about it that way.

She’s right.

What can I say to Krysal? What should I say? Something more than just “Thanks,” that’s for sure.

For anyone who cares, anyone who isn’t just in it for a paycheck, working in a cemetery office is very special.

Heartrending, for sure, you hear such horrible stories, but with unique opportunities to help people.

Being entrusted with people’s memories – forever, as they believe, as they expect – is a solemn, sacred, responsibility. An opportunity for service in a time of great need. Something I never imagined doing.

Life had its own plan. I was drafted to accept complete responsibility for an old nonprofit cemetery, against my will, 37 years ago.

Didn’t want to. Had to.

Dad did this for 48 years. I saw some of how he helped folks. I am not saying I’m good at it. Never will be. Can’t. Not my personality.

At least I do know I’m not nearly as good as our families deserve, and so I want to get better. I try.

As Luther said, “Ich kann nicht anders.” It’s the least I can do.

Most of our families these days are Black. They aren’t all well off financially, but many are very rich in love. That’s what matters.

During COVID, people told me that seeing a human face not hiding behind a mask, hearing a soft voice, being with someone who was taking time to ask questions and listen instead of just selling them as quickly as possible and moving on, was something unexpected, something special. I’m told that experiencing this from a white man who’s clearly educated and upper middle class made it even more meaningful, considering what was going on around us. I don’t deserve any credit for that – it’s just the right thing to do, that’s all – but too many others didn’t.

I hate even thinking of people in ethnic categories. We’re all just people, going through life together, right? But I’ve heard enough stories of appreciation for Dad that I understand these things can matter deeply, more than we imagine. As one woman said, “Fifty years ago, I was here [in the 1950’s, as a child] with Mom, arranging Grandma’s funeral. It was the first time I ever saw a white man treat my mother with respect.”

Infuriating that self-styled “Good People,” respected folks – I didn’t say “respectable” – who look like me, behaved that way. Inspiriting that Dad was better than that. But what a heritage to try to live up to!

There’s one thing I know I’m good at: finding people’s graves, even if they’re unmarked, even if they’re over a hundred years old, both at my Maple Grove Cemetery and across the street, at Highland, Wichita’s original burying ground. I’ve been helping people with that for almost 55 years, so I understand the logic behind our maps. What’s infuriating is that the city government, which took over Highland 45 years ago, doesn’t do anything to help people find graves there. They even blew off the last group of volunteers who cared. That’s just wrong!

Sometimes, finding a grave leads into a conversation about history. I like talking about our history together here in Wichita; we have quite a variety of folks buried with us. Dad always said, “Everyone has a story, and they’re all equally important, though we may hardly remember anything now.”

Here are a few I’ve helped people find:

• We have one of the first Kansans to fight in the Civil War – a policeman in Lansing, Kansas, the town Lincoln visited on his 1859 visit to Kansas, he crossed the Missouri River to take down a Confederate flag. Later, he served in Company A, 1st Kansas Infantry, as recorded on his gravestone. It’s in a circle around a pavilion, the first veterans’ memorial in this part of Kansas, a small replica of the memorial at the Andersonville National Historic Site. One of the first morticians in Wichita was held prisoner there – it’s carved into his gravestone. “Remember me and my buddies.” I remember.
• Nearby, there’s a baby – the brother of the 1940 Communist Presidential candidate. Yes, Kansas grew people like that. Who knew?
• On the other side of the cemetery, there’s the grave of Solomon Butler. Who? There’s a Wikipedia entry, and an annual track meet in his memory at the University of Dubuque. When he graduated, he went off to serve in World War I. Why a track meet? Because he was a sprinter and an Olympic long jumper – a Black American Olympian in 1920, long before Jesse Owens. Later, he played in the NFL. No one in Wichita remembered – we all know why – until I walked by his gravestone one afternoon in 2004 and noticed the words “Olympic Champion.”
• Do I think that’s so important? No, but it works as a headline. His sister became an R.N. – a girl from an impoverished family in the middle of nowhere, way back then. Her story is just as important, just as meaningful, just as inspiring, another ray of hope from a dark time in our history. Their father had freed himself from slavery in Alabama in 1864 and joined the Union Army; interviewed in 1910, he said, “Mom and I never had a chance to learn to read or write. We want our kids to get a good education.” That’s why they moved to Hutchinson, an Amish/Mennonite outpost, the largest town in Kansas that never segregated its schools. Three of their four surviving children made it to college. How can I not be impressed? And now the University of Illinois is about to publish a book about the family. In my small way, I’ve helped.
• And, just last Wednesday, a little baby. A girl, born in 2003. Her father came by the office to ask for help finding her unmarked grave; I took him up. When we got there, he talked about his wife, her mother: “She’s never come here to visit. She just can’t.” I asked what had happened. “She only lived for four hours.” Been there, done that. I told him about my daughter, Clare. His daughter was premature for the same reason: an incompetent cervix. We talked about how our wives felt, how as primagravidas they couldn’t ever have suspected. He talked about how he felt being told to leave the hospital “for his wife’s sake.” Just like me. So horrible! Can hearing someone else’s story help him? Help his wife? Not the only one, not alone, not anyone’s fault. I hope so. We hugged. He’ll be back. I hope she can come someday too, and find some comfort, some peace, while she’s still “on this side of the grass,” as we say.

There’s never “just another day at the office.”

So many memories, all precious to someone. That’s why we’re here.

Krysal – it’s been so much more than just therapeutic. It’s changed my life, it changed me, in so many ways.

A blessing I’d never imagined.

I won’t say “miraculous,” but I’ve been known to wonder.

Serving there hasn’t just been therapeutic for me. I think, I hope, it’s been therapeutic, a little anyway, for folks I’ve served.

And now Krysal sees it, after only fifty hours working with us. She’s only in the office because of a horrible coincidence. Her mother, Vanessa, was Susan’s friend, murdered just over a year ago. At the start of the year, we needed more help and Krysal needed a new challenge. I knew she was smart and hard-working, with a great heart, like her mom. How could I not offer her something?

For decades, I’ve wondered who’d serve after me. I’ve thought it best to wait and trust life to send me someone, hoping I’d recognize them and give them their opportunity. I wonder…

Krysal, what I can promise is, there’s a lot of life in a cemetery.