When I was born, I lived in a small country parsonage next to a rural church in western Iowa. A graveyard was our backyard. I only lived there until I was 3, so I don't have a lot of strong memories other than visiting while we lived in Omaha.
On our trip out west, we realized that our route would take us right past this little church. I pulled off the highway and took a trip down memory lane.
A side view of our little parsonage and the adorable red truck the current minister drives:
I burst into tears when I saw this gravestone. Irene and her sisters fixed my baby blanket, and she was a lovely woman.
My mom likes to recount the story of my brother and Sarah. One day, my mom couldn't find my brother. She finally discovered him way back in a corner of the cemetery. When she asked what he was doing, he said he had been talking with Sarah. "Sarah who?" my mom asked. We lived quite a distance from our neighbors, and any Sarahs we knew were not old enough to be there without their parents and a car. He kept insisting there was a Sarah. My mom parted the brambles and brush and saw this:
It's now kept up much better, and you can clearly see Sarah.
I'm glad that I was able to visit a small portion of my childhood. More tomorrow on our afternoon in Omaha.