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And There Were Mothers

Lisa Nee of Madison, a writer and president of Allen/Nee Productions, writes an occasional column, Such is Life, for Shore Publishing.

The Crypts for Mother’s Day.

That’s what I asked for, and that’s what I got.

My quixotic Mother’s Day ideas haven’t always been successful.

The year I asked for a refined game of croquet with my three, pre-teen sons nearly ended that with a trip to the emergency room. The “planting a garden” project became a mix of daisies, tomato plants, and weed killer.

But my suggestions for a trip to the dead several years ago met with such enthusiasm I was last to arrive at the car, conveniently missing the argument of who sits in the front seat.

It’s not well known, but in 1812 The Center Church on the New Haven Green was built over a portion of what was once a sprawling cemetery. The foundation of the church encases 137 of the original gravestones; the oldest dates back to 1687, and the last person was buried there in 1812. Protected from the elements, the crypt is an exceptional Colonial burial ground.

Recognizable Names, Everyday Citizens

This is not a burial ground to the elite. However, there are some recognizable names, members of President Rutherford Hayes’s family, and Reverend James Pierpont, founder of Yale. Still, most of those laid to rest in that random patch of cemetery are everyday citizens who endured all that revolutionary America dished out.

Our docent of the dead is a volunteer and member of Center Church. She is in her early 30s, tall, slim with on-her-toes energy that says academia. It is a bright sunny Saturday. The church is filled with warm light and a breeze coming through the open doors, a good day to visit the past without wallowing in it.

Our guide first brings attention to the impressive, double-panel engraved white marble slabs hung above the doors in the vestibule. Here are the names and dates that correspond with the 137 beings buried in the crypt. Because the day is bright, the boys and I snicker a little at some of the old Colonial names like Ezekiel, Sacket and Dorcas, Ester, and Thankful.

A Colonial Tradition

But our mood turns solemn when we see the identical first and last name listed in succession. Four Sarah Lymans, ages ranging from just born to one-year-old. The eldest Sarah, the mother, died in childbirth, age 27. There are multiple Sybyls, Elizabeths, and Daniels. It was Colonial tradition to continue the name of the deceased child until one lived.

There is only speculation about what brought an end to the practice of recycling dead children’s names. Perhaps they realized there is no salve to ease the loss of a child and for as short as that child’s life may have been, that while on earth they owned and were that name, that person.

Our small group transitions from looking up at the neatly engraved names to walking down two flights of unadorned steps.

There is nothing loud or ostentatious about the route, just one tin sign with black, block lettering that simply says, “To the Crypt.”

We could be heading down the steps to any dank basement, which makes the sight of the small, low-ceilinged room spotted with grave markers even more remarkable. What we first see are the backs of headstones, some tiny, a few white marble, but most are rough, unpolished stone. Each marks a person who had a life, some as short as one or two breaths with the oldest being 93 years old.

In Just a Few Words

Our guide opens the small gates and beckons us to come to the front of the nearest headstone and introduces us to Benedict Arnold’s first wife, Margret; to think she knew him as a great patriot before his fall.

We traverse the maze of identities captured in just a few words. Over here is a theologian, there a captain, a judge, another an honest and fair tax collector, honored with a large slab table. Upon arriving at the last row, in the darkest part of the crypt, I see our slim, academic, docent standing with her head bowed, not because the ceilings are low, they are, but as if in prayer. She waits in silence for us to gather behind her, then looks up, and with the reverence due to any head of state, says, “And there were mothers.” Although the stone she is referencing is well preserved, the light is dim, so my sons and I kneel to read the inscription, and this is what it said:

In Memory of

Mrs. Sarah Whiting

Late virtuous and amiable consort

of John Whiting Esquire

Daughter of Mr. Jonathan Ingersoll

of Milford, born on the 22d of October

1726, married on the 7th of

November 1751

The painful Mother of eight children

of whom

Six survive on the 4th day of July 1769

She finished her wearisome pilgrimage

In joyful hope and expectation of a

glorious immortality.

The hand of the good man fasten on the

skies and bids earth roll nor feels her

idle whir.

She was 43 years old and waited these 250 plus years to remind us, “And there were mothers.”

Yes, when Rome burned and Paul Revere rode, there were mothers. Mothers without anesthesia or antidepressants. There were mothers who buried as many children as those who survived. Long before Hallmark usurped the day in May, there were mothers, the original essential worker, who saw healthy children go to war and some live to old age. Mothers who had no rights but persevered so that their sons and daughters should have a better life. None of us perfect, but all doing the best we can. Forever whispering words of comfort, “Hush, hush it will be alright.”

I don’t know how long I knelt next to her grave, but I hear a familiar voice, my youngest son say, “This is the best Mother’s Day ever.”

I agree.

That Mother’s Day was four years ago. This year, for Mother’s Day 2020, in the midst of a pandemic, we celebrated in isolation, all children back home and healthy, with nothing taken for granted. I without a mother, but not without the echoing voices of the past forever whispering those consoling words, “Hush, hush, it will be alright.” It will be alright. Alright.