Lakewood Cemetery has been the final resting place for a century and a half of Minnesotans whose names still carry weight—Hubert Humphrey, Paul Wellstone—and for many others whose histories remain quieter, known mainly to the families who return.
The markers meander across gently rolling ground on the east side of an iconic city lake. From one slope you can watch cyclists, walkers, and rollerbladers of every age circle the sky-blue water below.
I was there today for a service held in the chapel just inside the entrance gates. Tile covers the walls and ceiling in a splendid array of images and colors. Seated under the dome, as if gathered inside an apse, the space is neither too large to lose intimacy nor too small to hold a dignified gathering.
The family spoke poetry and psalms. They spoke of family history and of the deeds their loved one had performed in life. They spoke of love, endurance, support, and caring. They reinforced their faith in the belief that they would all be reunited once again.
In death there is renewal.
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