When you set out to build a thing – a family, a church, a community – you never think about a cemetery. At least, we didn’t when we moved to this intentional community ten years ago. The town was only seven years old then, growing up in the middle of a cornfield. The center piece was the church, where broken hearts were getting healed. And the town spoked out from that hub offering employment, education, and practical experiences for rebuilding lives.

We had only been here a few months when our family became pioneers in a way we’d never imagined. Ellery Blythe White, our glory grandbaby, became the first member of the community to have need of a cemetery. Our devoted friend, Dave, contacted the state and plotted out the land while our brother-in-law, Kris, made the funeral arrangements. It wasn’t the contribution we wanted to make.

Last weekend, we gathered again at the cemetery to bury our town’s beloved Mr. Marshall. More than half a dozen gravestones have been added between Ellery’s and his. Because, that is the way of things. Every building includes some dying.

We don’t think so much about death in our cemetery, though. We think a lot more about life. We buried Mr. Marshall on Saturday, and on Sunday, Mrs. Marshall was at church as usual. Our four-year-old grandson, Simeon, did the typical embarrass-your-parents-at-the-first-opportunity and asked her if it was true her husband died.

“Yes,” she told him. “He died. But he is in Heaven now. Isn’t that neat? I think it is neat.”

Simeon nodded with a solemn face and said, “There are treasures in Heaven.”

Ah, yes, Sims, that is true. And now there is one more.