Two years ago our family was on vacation. We drove up into the countryside near Bedford, Indiana to a small white church named the Mundel Christian Church. This is the place where I was baptized as a youth. At this pilgrimage spot of mine are fond memories of pitch-in dinners and all-day meetings as my father once held the pulpit there. But what remains with me more than anything is the fact that so many of my family members are buried there behind the church. The graveyard is big because the church has been there a long time. It stands silently reminding me that my grandfather, two of my uncles, my grandmother, a cousin, and my father are all buried close to one another.

As we visited that day we stood near the grave of my recently deceased grandmother. Then we walked over to the grave o…