The Lone Star State has more than its share of towns and places with interesting names — Muldoon among them. Were it not for the city limit sign, you would never know you had entered and passed through Muldoon. Less than a hundred people call this tiny spot on the map home. Only a few buildings remain as ragged reminders of Muldoon’s past.
Muldoon is named after an Irish priest named Michael Muldoon. The town is located on a grant of land originally made to Father Muldoon, the curate for Stephen F. Austin’s first Texas colony. Father Muldoon was associated with the Diocese of Monterrey, Mexico. He served in Texas from 1831 to 1832 and was the only priest appointed to serve non-Hispanic Texas settlers.
The Pitman Cemetery is located just a few miles outside of town in an absolutely idyllic setting. An old chapel serves as the gathering place for memorial services — complete with old wooden-slatted pews covered with layers of faded butterscotch paint and ample windows to let in the breeze. It really is a perfect place for a memorial service with burial sites within walking distance.
I enjoy walking through old cemeteries, looking at dates and epitaphs on weathered tombstones. This hallowed ground has soaked up the tears of many grieving family members and friends over its long history. Every headstone has felt the touch of the hands of those who have stood there, perhaps weeping in silent remembrance.
In places as old as the Pitman Cemetery, the weather has erased names and dates on many of the tombstones, a solemn reminder of the words of Psalm 103:15-16:
As for man, his days are like grass;
As a flower of the field, so he flourishes.
When the wind has passed over it, it is no more,
And its place acknowledges it no longer.
As I meandered through the cemetery I was especially touched by the tombstone of a mother who had died in childbirth. And the plastic flowers on the grave-site of another child that passed away on the same day he was born served as an indication that someone still remembered this child, even after so many years.
As much as I don’t like thinking about death, strolling through old cemeteries reminds me that I must acknowledge its reality. The day will come when my remains will be placed into the ground and a headstone will mark my resting place.
When I am finally placed in the ground, the dash between the dates will tell nothing about me or what happened in the span of my years. A well-written line or Bible verse may be the only thing to tell future cemetery-strollers a little something about my faith or beliefs about what lies beyond the grave. And, the passage of time may eventually erase any words on my tombstone. Like a flower of the field that has withered away, even my resting place will one day no longer acknowledge me.