Columnist Rev. Andrea Ayvazian: A blessing while weeding a cemetery in the desert

The Rev. Andrea Ayvazian

The Rev. Andrea Ayvazian

By THE REV. ANDREA AYVAZIAN

Published: 12-20-2024 1:06 PM

Modified: 12-20-2024 4:00 PM


This is the 15th December that I have written my monthly column for the Gazette. But this year feels different — with wars dragging on, frightening news swirling in the press, and an angry, unpredictable Donald Trump about to take the reins (again) at the White House. This year, despite the “holiday cheer,” the twinkling lights, and carols (in my tradition), it feels challenging to write about hope, the returning of the light, or other inspirational messages.

Instead, I have decided to tell you a story that has been lodged in my head for over a week. For days, my mind has gone over and over this true story from decades ago, and so I decided that was an omen. Remembering what happened so long ago has given my weary spirits a lift. Maybe it will help your spirits as well.

During the summer of 1986, my partner Michael Klare and I flew to Las Vegas to participate in a civil disobedience action planned at the Nevada Test Site (nuclear weapons) on Hiroshima Day, Aug. 6. The action was simple and the outcome was predictable. Early on that day, Michael and I walked with many others onto the site across the desert where our government tested nuclear bombs below ground. Hand-in-hand, rows of activists walked past numerous signs warning us that trespassing on the Nevada Test Site would result in arrest and imprisonment. We walked on knowing what lay ahead.

Once on the site, we knelt and prayed for peace on the desert sand. The local police arrived in swarms, with guns drawn.

We were arrested and separated by gender. The men were taken to jails in Las Vegas, the women to the jail in Tonopah. We were sentenced to eight days in jail for trespassing on federal property.

On the morning of the first day in jail, a guard came to our cells and told us we had to perform community service while incarcerated. We said fine. We were all women of faith and doing community service sounded like a great idea to us.

The guard said we had three choices for our service work: help cook meals in the kitchen at the jail; wash and vacuum all the police cars and town vehicles; or weed the Tonopah town cemetery. Weeding the cemetery sounded appealing — eight of us chose that option quite happily.

The crew of us weeders were transported in a police van to the cemetery on the outskirts of Tonopah. A guard in a cruiser was assigned to supervise us. He told us what to do and then sat on the hood of his cruiser with his rifle by his side.

Article continues after...

Yesterday's Most Read Articles

Weeding a cemetery in the desert is not like weeding a cemetery in New England. It was dusty and sandy and the “weeds” are large sagebrush bushes that no one had pulled out for years. The eight of us set out to uproot these big bushes. We pulled and tugged and fell down on top of each other — all the while talking, singing, and laughing.

Each day when another cruiser arrived with our lunch (baloney sandwiches, Kool-Aid, and an apple), we gathered in a circle on the ground, blessed the food, prayed together, and then ate.

Day after day we pulled up sagebrush bushes, sprayed each other with water from a long hose, sang hymns, and prayed over our food. We talked to the guard watching over us, but he said very little. We invited him to join our circle at lunch, but he refused. And yet, as the days went by, he stopped taking his rifle out of the cruiser, and he began to hover on the outside of our circle when we blessed the food. He almost seemed to be joining us in prayer.

On our final day weeding the cemetery, the guard seemed friendlier. When it came time for lunch and the sandwiches had been delivered, the guard said to us, “I need to leave for a few minutes. Can you promise me you won’t run away?”

“Yes,” we said, “we promise you we will not run away. You have our word. Go for as long as you need to, we will be fine. We’ll stay here and weed. You can trust us.”

The guard drove off.

Twenty minutes later, he returned in his cruiser and right behind him was a red truck with a woman driving and two young boys jammed in the front seat. The woman and boys got out of the truck. They approached us with bags in their hands and gave each one of us a Milky Way candy bar and a can of Coke.

Then the guard spoke up. “This is my wife and my sons,” he said.

“I wanted them to meet you.”

We sat on the ground in a circle. The boys, hanging close to their father, were probably a bit undone by the sight of eight women in prison uniforms. We told the boys how much it meant to us to meet them; we told them how lovely and gentle their father had been with us; we told them how happy we were to have candy bars and Cokes — that we had not had any treats in eight days.

The guard’s wife said she had heard many stories about our singing and praying. She told us that she went to church and that the stories her husband had been telling her each evening all week had touched her deeply.

We talked for about 15 minutes, and then the guard’s wife and sons drove off in the red truck. The guard came and sat with us in the circle. We ate our Milky Way bars and drank our Cokes. It was a blessing. All of it, a blessing.

The Rev. Andrea Ayvazian, Ministerial Team, Alden Baptist Church, Springfield, is also founder and director of the Sojourner Truth School for Social Change Leadership.