God Speaks in a Cemetery

#3 in the Salvaged Stories Series

I am taking this time away from the cottage to sort through the hundreds—probably thousands—of pages of processing I did during my ten years of healing. Not all need to be saved since I am not in those dark places any longer. But, mixed in with the processing are stories and writing worth salvaging.

This piece was originally included in what would become Trauma in the Pews. Though this story did not make it into the book, the experience transformed my writing and became embedded in the book in several ways.

Photo by Ann on Unsplash

God Speaks in the Cemetery

My husband and I were in Steilacoom Park in Tacoma, Washington. We were looking for a labyrinth. The directions stated, “It is in the park, up the hill from the lake.” It is a very large park, and these instructions were not exceptionally helpful. From where we parked, no lake was visible. Then while looking at a park map on a sign, I noticed there was a cemetery.

“That’s odd,” I said. “All I see over there is a field but there is a historical marker. Let’s go look.” Knowing my penchant for both graveyards and historical markers, my husband knew we would be heading for the cemetery.

Walking through the gate, I could see nothing that would indicate that we were walking in a cemetery except a couple of blocks of concrete that might be grave markers. Standing in front of the historical marker, I began reading,

On this site stands Western State Hospital Historical Cemetery. Over 3,200 psychiatric patients from Western State Hospital were buried here from 1876 to 1953. Since then, burial has been elsewhere. The graves are marked with numbers for privacy reasons and the stigma of mental illness. These people worked on the award-winning hospital farm and in other hospital areas and called the hospital ‘home.’ They were mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and many were veterans. May they rest in peace, with dignity and respect. (City of Lakewood, Washington Historical Marker, 1996)

I was stunned. There were 3,200 mental-health patients buried in this field!? I noticed another sign and found a map of burial sites. The area was probably the size of two football fields and the graves shown on the diagram looked like a massive room full of cots lined up in rows. Why could I not see the graves?

Scott and I began walking to the center of the field. Once we recognized the small concrete markers with numbers that were below the grassy surface, we understood the magnitude of how many were buried in the field. The information on the sign indicated that a not-for-profit organization, Grave Markers, was in the process of researching and placing gravestones that included a name and birth/death dates. These were mixed in amongst the numbered markers.

Standing in the center of the field, the reality sank in. All these people died in the hospital (originally named Washington Asylum for the Insane) with little hope for healing. Though many may have suffered from other conditions, neither the patients nor those who worked to help them knew anything of the effects of trauma on the brain. Numerous graves were those of Civil War veterans, most likely suffering from PTSD.

As tears began flowing, I felt both the presence of God and those who were buried. I felt the patients crying out to me from underneath their almost invisible sunken markers. Then, like a cloud of witnesses, they formed a circle around me and urged me to continue to bring hope for healing.

The last person buried in the cemetery died the year I was born. He or she died as I began to live. It was now possible to bring hope for those who suffered. Without the trauma I experienced, my talents would have been used in other ways, but my writing would lack the post-traumatic wisdom that flows from my fingertips onto my computer screen. God, through my healing, was helping me wring good out of tragedy.

Glancing across the field at Scott, I saw that he was also feeling the emotional impact as he walked amongst the graves. He was about ten feet away from me when I said, “If we were born in a different time, we could have been buried here.” We both knew it was true. He nodded in agreement and then pointed to a bench under the one very lonely tree and suggested we sit for a few moments.

It was overwhelming to consider that so many lived and died with the label of insane and their stories were kept hidden because of that stigma. I remembered living near Camarillo Mental Hospital in California. When passing the building as a young teen, a shiver would run down my spine knowing that my mother was suffering a mental breakdown. My father was deeply protective of her and without his care, she could have easily required hospitalization at various times in her life—though few knew. This memory would have occurred approximately twelve years after the day when the last body was buried in an unmarked grave somewhere near me.

As Scott and I continued to wander among the gravesites, I wondered what kind of help the people received and hoped they were not harmed. How could I honor those who suffered? My solution was to collect first names to use for the stories in Trauma in the Pews. Calling out their name and including them in the book felt as though they were being brought to the future and given a place of honor. They were human beings who mattered.

Scott would eventually choose the name of Nathan (who lived from 1834 to 1934), to tell part of his story. We both felt a great affinity for those who were buried around us. Only our care for each other, the medications we both took before healing, God’s loving guidance, and the trained skill of three therapists had saved us from the fates of many of those who have experienced the levels of trauma we survived.

We did eventually find Waughop Lake, though we were not yet able to locate the labyrinth. As we sat gazing across the lake (originally part of the hospital grounds), we noticed the wide variety of trees and plants surrounding us. A lover of nature, Eliza Waughop, the wife of the first administrator at the hospital, brought in plants from all over the world to decorate the grounds. These were likely planted by the patients who worked on the hospital farm. I wondered how they were treated as they worked to beautify the lake which I was now enjoying so many years later. Would the fruits of my labor also benefit others in the future I could not yet see?

I was encouraged to learn that Dr. John Waughop did work to change the hospital from a prison-like atmosphere to a treatment hospital.[1] His own history of secondary trauma as a surgeon’s assistant during the Civil War, likely brought compassion to his mission.

The future I imagined as I sat by Waughop lake was one in which those who suffered trauma would become honored parts of our churches and communities. Their unique paths to healing through the trauma-informed spiritual discipline of healing would bring them to a closer relationship with God. This healing would be celebrated as evidence of God’s power to heal and transform. Their post-traumatic faith and wisdom would begin to transform the ministries of churches everywhere.

God demonstrated a profoundly intimate understanding of my life and story by creating this life-changing experience in the cemetery. Symbolically, my talents have been unearthed from the unmarked graves where trauma buried them. Only time would tell if my efforts would impact those who in previous times would have lived their lives and been buried in cemetery hospitals. I returned to my writing with a better understanding of the mission!

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[1] Washington State Department of Social and Health Services. “History of Western State Hospital” Website accessed November 6, 2021,