Sometimes shifts in thinking come from the most unusual places and most interesting people. A cemetery tour in Barkerville, led by a newly ordained minister, allowed me to ponder my faith in new ways. I admired not only his passion for history and easy manner, but there was something genuine and truly at peace about him – a rest evident in his eyes. I long for that kind of genuine rest in my tormented soul – for a faith that is so pure and complete that it shimmers and shines without a spoken word – a marrying of all worlds, both inside and out.
As Reverend Austin Spry spoke, I was haunted and stirred by the stories told at each grave site, many of them now merely anecdotes passed down from generation to generation – their full truth speculative at best. I wondered if the stories told were pleasing to those buried – if they accurately told of the double-edged elation and despair experienced in the harshness of the gold rush. It is not only gold that lingers in these hills, but the hopes, dreams, joys, and sorrows of those who lived and died in this land.
Many of the grave markers had the words “at rest” lovingly carved into them. I wonder how many of those buried in this cemetery are truly at rest, or even what that really means. It is difficult, if not downright impossible not to contemplate your own mortality, manner of death, epitaph, and lingering life story while standing amidst 150 years of history in a graveyard. Someday, will someone carve “at rest” as my epitaph? More importantly, will I ever find that peace while living – where people around me feel my rest, passion, faith, and genuineness without me even having to utter a word? I am convinced that will not happen until I can “marry” these fractured worlds that I attempt to live in all at once – like a time traveller pulled from century to century with no where to call home – trying desperately to fit in and understand at each new turn how to live, believe, and commune with the world. A chameleon in all respects – but even a time traveller and a chameleon have a natural state of rest or a place of belonging.
As I stood in the cemetery listening to my guide, I realized that I do not feel that natural state, or that center that I so desperately need and desire. I recognize the need to be a chameleon, to wear different “hats” so to speak in different situations, but I think that some of my stress and exhaustion lies in the fact that my natural chameleon state does not exist; that I am a time traveller who has forgotten her home –that I do not have a center strong enough to stand in and just breathe. This is something to consider as I weave along this treacherous journey to find freedom in faith, thought, and life.
Perhaps one day, like Reverend Austin Spry, my life and manner will exude peace and rest. My faith will not feel like something foreign and just out of reach – like the gold veins lying 55 feet below the rocks, sand, water, and muck. And yet, perhaps there’s something to be said for hard work to find the gold buried deep within the earth – to find the mother lode takes commitment, a tenacity of spirit, and a half-crazed stubbornness. Do I have to work that hard?
On the flip side, perhaps faith is simply a matter of resting a bit, dipping your feet in the river to cool off after a long dusty walk, and finding hatfuls of gold nuggets shining up from the water below, just waiting to be scooped up by the handful. Or perhaps it is a blend of both worlds. Mostly my faith world feels like a big “humbug” or “bust” where nothing is found and I am cold, haggard, half-starved and penniless surrounded by others who have “struck it rich”. Maybe I need to work a lot harder to uncover the “gold”, or rest a lot more and observe the world around me to discover the “nuggets” just waiting below my weary feet. A bit of an oversimplified analogy, but one that warrants a bit of thought.
No doubt I am exhausted from wearing so many hats, changing colours at every whim, time travelling with nowhere to rest – no center – without it I am the most miserable and forlorn miner – like the only Catholic miner not buried on consecrated ground in the Catholic cemetery. His sin? Suicide. He gave up, life got too hard, his debts too great to bear, his claim producing nothing, no end in sight to his troubles. The irony? The day after his self-inflicted death, his claim hits pay dirt. The lesson? He only needed to hold on for one more day.
So, as I notice the kind, gentle eyes of this complete stranger of faith, I hold onto that notion and strike out on what will probably be an uncomfortable and arduous journey – where my worlds will need to change and be transformed if they cannot be reconciled. A journey where a metamorphosis of sorts needs to occur if I am brave enough to let go, and hang on at the same time – to sing in the dark and let things shift in the night. With this shift, perhaps one day both my life and my epitaph will cry out “at rest”.
Seen. Known. Enough. 
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