The traffic light at Longpoint Road on Highway 17 catches me almost every time I travel through Mount Pleasant. There's only so much you can do at a stoplight, so with the snippet of downtime, I usually scan the nearby Christ Church and its grounds—telling myself that one sunny day I'll pull over to peer through the sanctuary’s old leaded glass windows.
I often try to imagine how the parish looked in 1727—the year it was built. I mentally erase the stoplight, the fence, power lines, and asphalt. Eerily, what I imagine is exactly how it looks in this photo I found on Google earlier today.
This past Saturday, I caught the stoplight yet again. It wasn't sunny—the skies above the stone and mortar church were gloomy; the church looked depressed. The slabs of gray, leaning tombstones echoed the sentiment.
When the light changed and I resumed my speed, a flash of red passed my peripheral. A camellia bush on the church grounds was bleeding red into the gray day. I hastily threw on my turn signal while being cursed at (I read his lips) from behind. As I pulled into the narrow drive, I chastised myself. None of the circumstances were right. It was gloomy, I didn't have anything but my sucky phone camera, and last but not least... none of life's circumstances last week warranted a graveyard as a pick-me-up adventure.
Amidst the silence of lived-here-died-heres, fat squirrels scurried about confidently in their safe zone. I mean really, if you are gonna bury your nuts, a graveyard's the place to do it right?
The church's graveyard was oddly absent of faded plastic flowers, I thought. But as I read the dates on the leaning markers I realized: You would have had to have been an exceptionally good gal or fellow for someone to be placing flowers on your grave 200 years later.
No flowers? No problem. Nature takes care of that on its own. The sacred grounds were void of grass from the expanse of the angel oaks, but gently ablaze with wild flowers. The dogwoods were abloom beneath the oaks and the burning bush that pulled me in with its brilliant red blossoms stood before me adjacent to the church. The camellia bush was full and beautiful amidst its somber backdrop—its base carpeted in the crimson decay of its older blooms.
I tried to peer into the window of the little church but bumblebees kept me at bay, so I walked around the grounds reverently. I was surprised by how calm I felt there. Was it the quietness? The lack of other visitors? The absence of all? I couldn't figure it out, but that's okay. Some things are better left a mystery. For now, I conclude that the Christ Church grounds are asleep... but not soundly, as spring knocks.
*Footnote: As Don walked into the door that evening he handed me an old book. A boy he works with has been filling him in on his family's history in Mt. Pleasant (Villeponteaux). My mouth dropped when I read the gold insignia on front of book: "Christ Church Parish Preservation Society" History of Mount Pleasant. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the pictures to show Don the church I had ironically just left. I got chills. Hmmm… the mystery continues.
