Page 43 of A Wilderness Within

Why was she not condemning him? How could she not hate him right now?

“I…” He didn’t know what to say next, and his words trailed off into silence.

Caroline walked up to him and embraced him. She wrapped her arms tight as though trying to crush him, and the pain in his still healing shoulder felt good. Like it was cleansing him somehow. He wrapped his arms around her and embraced her in return. This woman was and would always be the beautiful, bright, lighthouse tower in the storm around him. She cut through his darkness, even the parts he swore would never see light again.

“It’s okay,” she whispered against his chest. “It’s okay…”

He should have been the one comforting her. He should’ve been holding her in his arms and promising to give her back the life she’d once had. But here he was in a cold, quiet yard, four graves at his back, and all he could do was hang on to her for dear life.

“Do you mind if I say a few words?” she asked, and pulled out a slender old-looking book from her coat.

“No,” he replied. “I think they’d all like that.”

“I know they would,” she agreed with a sad smile. “This was my dad’s favorite book of poetry. It has some classics in it, but there’s one I think that’s the best. It’s called Do not Stand at my Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye. He read it at my grandmother’s funeral a few years back, and it’s always stuck with me.”

She thumbed through the pages, and he stood silently beside her, one arm around her shoulders, the other gripping the shovel’s handle so hard his knuckles were white.

She cleared her throat, trying to smile, but it soon faded as she began to speak.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

She was quiet a long moment afterward, but her words seemed to echo in the still yard.

Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die.

Lincoln struggled for a breath as he watched his woman stand there and not cry. Her eyes held tears, but she didn’t shed a single one.

“They aren’t there; they didn’t die,” she finally whispered and then turned to him. It wasn’t a denial of their deaths. Rather it was an acceptance that they had been something more than mere bodies living on this earth. Who they were deep inside, their souls, was all around them, glinting off snow, shimmering in the night sky, or a soft whisper of birds’ wings as the dawn broke over the horizon. She was right. Her family wasn’t there buried beneath the ground, nor was Adam still lying on his cot in the bunker.

They are not there; they did not die.

The burden crushing him slowly began to ease, and he pulled Caroline into another hug. Somehow she’d done the impossible—she’d shared his burden and given him the strength to go on. He’d been right. This woman was the embodiment of hope.

“Let’s go inside. We have a lot to pack. They stocked up on baby supplies. Formula, diapers, all sorts of stuff. Regular supplies and dog food too. They were prepared for the long haul.” Caroline’s voice held a hint of false cheer, but he only saw her courage. She was strong. How could he ever have believed this woman was weak?

Lincoln followed her inside, and they were both greeted by the excited prance of the Irish setter.

---