On All Saints' Day, candles are lit at all the graves in our cemetery. I pass by windows several times a day that offer a clear view of the cemetery, and at the moment, it looks especially beautiful. This view of the cemetery constantly reminds me that my life will also come to an end, and I will (hopefully) find my final resting place there.
Being in the cemetery has something very calming about it. It reminds me that for centuries, sisters have lived and prayed here. They all had their own problems, and somehow I believe they understand mine. They have completed their journey and entered into the glory of God. No matter how long certain periods of time seem to me, or how big a problem may appear, when I look at the graves, I am reminded of how quickly life passes and how small my problems actually are.
It’s strange to hear the bass from car radios booming at the cemetery of the monastery, which once lay outside the city. But no matter how much you can hear the noise of the city, there’s no other cemetery I would want to be buried in. This is the one that belongs to my beloved monastery.
Yesterday, during our cemetery walk from the current cemetery to the old abbesses' cemetery, we passed through a courtyard where we all had to look upward. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun had already set far enough that it was no longer visible. But the church tower—only the church tower—was bathed in a red-golden light from the sun. It was a stunning and beautiful sight.
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