An old cemetery which predates the church building is also on the property. The tombstones in the first row were erected in memory of five children from the same family, none of them living to see their first birthday. They are still part of the neighbourhood one and a half centuries later. I walked through the snow reading the names on the markers noting names, relationships and epitaphs of people who had settled in this new land from Europe in the early 19th century.
We had a heavy snowfall last Sunday and my husband was away in Ottawa. I started to shovel the driveway and two neighbours I had never met came over, started our snowblower and cleared the snow from our large corner lot. I knew the previous owners of the houses they now live in but in the two or more years they have lived on our street, I never had the opportunity to meet them. There are more strangers on our small street than acquaintances. We back out of our driveways each day going our separate ways, our paths in the city never crossing.
No wonder I marvel at the workmanship of a church in a windswept, icy field and dream of the cemented connections represented by each field stone.