What we did on the way home

The grave at Forest Home Cemetery, Forest Park, Illinois

I must preface this blog post with an apology.

The pirate does not usually do that, so listen up.

I'm painfully aware that I owe you a post about Audrey's wedding. I promised my cherished reader Amanda Bennett that it would be delivered no later than Audrey and Mike's first anniversary, which was last Saturday.

For having reneged on that promise, I am honestly sorry. However.

By way of explanation, I was called out of town on a somewhat last-minute basis, which encompassed all of last week, and although it was for a happy reason, I was nonetheless so involved in what was going on during that trip, that writing a blog post about anything was impossible.

Our Lissy at Marshall Park, Charlotte, North Carolina

No sooner had we returned from that trip than I got sick. As in, I came down with a cold that began with a scratchy throat and got worse every day.

(I should say here that I have had much worse colds; as you'll see in a moment, I was able to function through most of it. So as colds go it was a rather lame one, but I'm not as young as I used to be and even minor illnesses are like slogging through waist-deep mud.)

I am semi-happy to report that I'm now in the strangle-tickle-cough-hack-sneeze-repeat stage of the cold -- and by sneeze I mean the kind that practically knock you off your feet, after which you're obliged to blow yoiur nose -- with a box of tissues at my side in whichever location I settle, and nights of sleep interrupted and miserable by said inevitable and annoying strangle-tickle-hack-sneeze routine.

Despite this, TG took me to Charlotte on this past Tuesday, where we met our Stephanie with her children, because it being Veterans Day the kids were out of school, and Allissa wanted me to take her senior pictures.

We had planned this for a long time but what we did not foresee was, One, it would be during a cold snap -- and by that I mean actual temperatures in the mid forties with wind chill putting it solidly into the thirties -- and Two, I would be sick with a cold.

Allissa with her treasured Bible

(I actually did not tell them that I was sick with a cold, and they did not pick up on it. I was hoping the night before and even the morning of the shoot, that Stephanie and Allissa would realize that it was too chilly and windy to go forward. But they were determined to proceed, and so we did.)

(And as I said, I've had much worse colds and if I'd been too uncomfortable to take the pictures, I would have said so. I bundled up and was perfectly fine in that regard. It was Allissa, with bare legs and wearing a dress with no coat, who suffered.)

But we got some lovely shots of a subject who is both lovely and sweet, and now it's done, so it was worth it. Although I will say, we plan to take some more shots at Thanksgiving, because it was impossible for Allissa to change outfits and we want to give her more pictures to choose from.

So here we are nearly one week after the anniversary, and I beg your forgiveness if I make you wait a few more days for the promised anniversary/wedding post.

Allissa photographed at The Green, Charlotte, North Carolina

You will have it by Monday.

And so let us proceed with the subject at hand: What we did on the way home.

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In the days leading up to our trip to Chicago in late September, in connection with her school work, Dagny had been reading a biography.

It was of the great evangelist whose heyday took place in the first part of the twentieth century: William Ashley Sunday (1862-1935), known to all as Billy Sunday.

The piece of information that caught her interest was the location of Billy Sunday's grave.

Dagny was so thrilled when she sighted the deer

She looked on the map and saw that it was very near Chicago.

I took it a step further and learned that he -- along with his wife and three of their four children -- are interred at Forest Home Cemetery in Forest Park, Illinois, about a twenty-minute drive from the city.

So it was decided that on our way out of town, headed again for Lexington, Kentucky, where we would spend the night before going all the way home the next day, we would pay our respects at Billy Sunday's grave.

When we arrived at the cemetery, as is often the case when one visits larger burial grounds, we got turned around.

As in, TG let Dagny and me off to wander for a spell while he went to the office in search of a map which would lead us to Billy's grave.

It shouldn't have been difficult; in many cases Find a Grave tells one the exact coordinates of a grave.

Geese living their best lives

You just have to get oriented and head for that spot.

In this case, I knew that the Sunday grave was located at Section 32, Lot 106. In a cemetery where everything is numbered, this should not have presented a great challenge.

However.

Dagny and kept coming up against two problems: One, the graves where we were searching (which we thought was the right place) did not seem to be the right age to have originated circa 1935.

Two, although the sections certainly were numbered, we would get right up to where the next one should be 32, only to find that no matter which way we turned, the numbers went in another direction altogether.

We did have a great time wandering though, as it was a gracious weather day, and we saw deer who were lounging and munching and not the least bit alarmed by us, because deer love cemeteries and they seem to understand that people wander there.

Made you look

A gaggle of geese were making themselves at home there too, and observing wildlife is always both relaxing and stimulating.

Also we saw a tree whose trunk had been overtaken by thorns, and I haven't done any research but if you know what that is about, please let me know in the comments.

In due time TG returned to fetch us and all became clear as to why Dagny and I had been unable to locate the Sunday grave.

We had turned in to Forest Home Cemetery in the wrong place and were in the wrong part of it, so much so that we had to go back out onto the road and drive down a bit, to the correct gate.

Dagny and I hopped back aboard and in no time we were drawing nigh to the sacred spot we sought.

Meanwhile in the office, the cemetery employee had told TG that Billy Sunday gets, if not a steady stream, then a respectably frequent number of visitors to his resting place.

A thorny situation

He and his family are by no means forgotten, neglected, or ignored.

I was glad to know that, because it is a special place indeed.

For all of my Christian life, which began when I was saved in the summer of 1971, I have heard preachers refer to the ministry of Billy Sunday, and of the great influence he had on the world.

According to Shakespeare all comparisons are odious, but if one were inclined to compare Billy Sunday to a person whose name and ministry are more recognizable as affecting the second half of the twentieth century, it would be Billy Graham.

And I only use that comparison to indicate the scope of his reach and the truly amazing variety of opportunities Billy Sunday had, to preach the gospel to untold numbers of people.

Dagny at the Sundays' gravesite

He was somewhat of a phenomenon, gifted of God and blessed of God. Despite his shortcomings, God saw fit to use him.

May it be said of all of us.

At any rate, to visit his grave was a great honor.

Still, when we came upon the grave, it was a sight that caused us to come up short.

If one were to picture the most peaceful, beautiful, verdant, quiet place to rest, with one of the most simple yet evocative monuments you could dream of, the Sunday grave would fulfill that vision.

TG and I pay our respects

Billy and his wife Helen Amelia Thompson, known in life as "Ma Sunday", are both there.

And so are their three sons: George, William Jr., and Paul.

The Sundays' only daughter, Helen Edith Sunday Haines, died in 1932, before either of her parents, at the age of forty-two. She is buried in Sturgis, Michigan.

Son George Marquis Sunday also predecased both of his parents, dying in 1933 at the age of forty. 

Son William Ashley Sunday Jr. passed away three years after his father, in 1938, at the age of thirty-six.

Son Paul Thompson Sunday also passed at the age of thirty-six, in 1944.

A sight to behold

Ma Sunday outlived her husband and all four of her babies. I hope she had some sweet years with her grandchildren after those sorrows.

May they all rest in peace.

On the Sundays' monument are inscribed these words:

I Have Fought A Good Fight
I Have Finished My Course
I Have Kept the Faith
II Tim 4:7

Amen.

Reluctant to leave, but having already lingered longer than we intended, we pulled away and drove eight hours to our beds for the night.

And the next day, we reached home and our own beds, for which we were most grateful.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday