A simple white sign by the side of a back road pointed down a country lane to Mt Zion Church. The church was not visible from the road, but a long driveway led through the trees to the top of a knoll, and there sat the church, surrounded by farmland. To the east, beyond the cemetery the Blue Ridge Mountains were shrouded in clouds.
I walked through the gates of the cemetery. Sunlight broke through the clouds and played over the fields where cows grazed. I stood for a long time at the pasture fence watching the cows and the clouds over the mountains. An old hymn tune began to run around in my head, and I recognized it as one of my Mother's favorites. I looked back up at the church building and thought about spring Sundays many years ago, standing beside her and singing the closing hymn, just waiting to be released into the golden sunshine.
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