CEDAR GROVE, TENN. - "Danial Ross. Born: 1791. Died: 1842."

The name and the dates on the tombstone jump out at me immediately.

My grandfather, father, brother and I have driven out to this middle-of-nowhere cemetery in rural West Tennessee on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Leaves crumble under my sneakers, and the sun bears down on my balding head, as I explore this piece of my family’s past.

At first glance, I tell myself this could be any old country cemetery. The ugliness of faded plastic flower arrangements and skinny, branch-exposed trees strikes me. I smell dust and see weeds and wonder how often anyone ventures out to this seemingly forgotten patch of God’s green earth.

Yet, I sense that I am experiencing something significant, that somehow this is sacred ground for me.

“W.A. Ross. Dec. 16, 1828-Dec. 25, 1909. He died as he lived, trusting in God.”

I am lost in thought when Papa’s voice jars me back into the moment.

Papa is my dad’s dad. He has white hair, wears overalls and loves fishing and hunting. He worked most of his life as a farmer and carpenter. He always voted for Democrats until Ronald Reagan came along.

Papa fought in World War II and was shot in the face. The famous war correspondent Ernie Pyle happened to be in the operating room the day Papa was wounded and wrote this about him in his book “Brave Men”:


I could tell you so much more about Papa.

How he drove a sky-blue “JOY Bus” in the 1970s and brought busloads of black children to a small white congregation.

How he accepted responsibility when he learned in his 80s that he had fathered an out-of-wedlock daughter more than six decades earlier -— before he met my grandmother or gave his life to Jesus Christ.

How he built a legacy of faith in his five children, 15 grandchildren, 24 great-grandchildren and three great-great-grandchildren.

But then, this essay isn’t about Papa — at least not entirely.

“John A. Ross. Born: 1864. Died: 1955.”

I see the names on the tombstones and wonder who they were and how they died. More importantly, what kind of lives did they live? Did they worship in the one-room white church that overlooks the cemetery? Did they make the world a better place?

Ross. Ross. Ross. My family’s name is all over Palestine Cemetery, and I feel like I belong here, if only for a moment. I am here for a reason.

I say little as I walk alongside Papa in the cemetery. I listen to him as he tells me about the people buried here.

“Who was Daniel Ross?” I ask, curious about this man who died 20 years before the Civil War. (The tombstone spelled his first name wrong, according to county records.)

“He was my great-great-grandfather,” Papa tells me. I quickly do the math. That would make him my great-great-great-great-grandfather.

I am in awe of the roots I find here. But I am only partly here for the past.

I realize that when Papa shows me an empty space he has marked off in the cemetery. This, he explains, is where he will be buried someday beside Grandma. I swallow the lump in my throat. At the same time, I am oddly comforted.

There is no dread or apprehension in Papa’s voice. He has lived a long life — a faithful and honorable life. When his time arrives, he will be ready.

Papa, a member of the Huntingdon Church of Christ, celebrated his 93rd birthday March 24, just a few weeks before he died.

“Lloyd L. Ross. Born: 1918. Died: 2011.”

We buried Papa in the exact spot that he chose. But praise the Lord, those are just bones under that chunk of rock.

The walk in the cemetery that I described occurred in 2004. I last saw Papa a few months before he died April 17. Frail and bedridden, he made it clear that he wanted to go home — the eternal one promised by his Savior.

“You may not see me again,” he told me the morning I left to drive home.

“Yes, I will,” I replied.