Hidden Stories of Resilience is part of a heartfelt series, Love Across Borders, where love defies time zones, languages, and generations–even cemeteries.

Originally published in December 2024, updated in June 2025.

💛 5-minute read

When we were kids, we used to hold our breath as we passed cemeteries. Some superstition—I suppose. I can’t remember the reason. But now, I do the opposite.

I breathe deeper.

Cemeteries have become places where I reconnect with parts of myself hushed by the world’s noise. They don’t make me superstitious. They settle me, especially this one.

Alex pulled into the cemetery, and I slipped into the role of self-appointed tour guide. “Here it is!” I announced, gesturing to the rows of headstones. In the backseat, his Polish relative Zuzia took it all in quietly.

This place whispered inspiring stories of strength and endurance. If only the tombstones could talk.

Though, maybe in the case of Aunt Hania, her tombstone might be saying something more pointed. “If only you could have cleaned up those dead flowers.”

Two summers ago, we planted flowers in her memory–blooms full of good intentions, now probably shriveled into a botanical crime scene. We had meant to keep them up. Life had gotten in the way.

But Zuzia’s visit revived those old intentions. Maybe a small gesture could still honor Aunt Hania’s legacy.

I fondly remember how it felt to visit her. Her apartment was a museum of memories — a collection of academic books lining the walls, souvenirs from faraway lands scattered like treasure. Despite all she had seen, Aunt Hania wanted to know us. Her curiosity was a kind of love. Telling our stories to her felt like a hug to the soul.

Time spent with her seemed to stretch and reshape itself. The cuckoo clock gently nudged us to stay longer, the tea set calling us to sit down and take a breath. Even in death, she made sure we could stay connected. Ten years ago, she asked for her ashes to be flown from Poland to the States. We held a quiet service in the nearby log cabin chapel.

A Clean Grave, A Quiet Mystery

When we reached her resting place, I stopped in my tracks. Her grave was pristine—immaculate even. A surprise that someone had been taking care of it.

“Alex, we’ve got to thank that groundskeeper,” I said, taking in the peacefulness.

But the groundskeeper hadn’t touched the red lantern beside the stone. That mysterious fixture had baffled us for years.

Zuzia leaned in with quiet authority. It’s a lantern for remembrance,” she explained. “A candle goes inside.” A piece of Poland, tucked into our American landscape.

Time and weather had rusted the latch shut. We couldn’t open it. We hoped to find a replacement at the nearby church complex.

A Turn Down the Hall

The building next to the cemetery felt more like a labyrinth than a chapel. We wandered the long, linoleum halls. Zuzia and Alex ducked into what looked like a museum — glass cases filled with old priestly vestments.

I wasn’t feeling museum-y. I kept walking.

“Are you Polish too?” The woman asked, smiling.

“No,” I replied, expecting that to be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

She began to share her story. Born in Eastern Poland during World War II, she lost her parents when Russia invaded. They were sent to Siberia. She was orphaned in Russian territory.

At 18, she fought to reclaim her Polish identity and returned to her homeland. Eventually, her family immigrated to the U.S. — but not without more loss. Her mother passed away at 49—a life shaped by survival and love.

I was stunned, I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to interrupt her strength with something shallow.

But then she smiled and asked, “How did you two meet?”

I told her, “We sat beside each other on an airplane.”

She laughed gently, then shared her own cute meeting place: Grand Central Station. Her future husband pretended to be annoyed when she accidentally bumped into him, but tracked her down later through her mother. The rest was history.

We hugged her before we left. And she thanked us for listening.

Lighting the Lanterns

The gift shop turned out to be just across the hall. We’d walked past it, of course.

In the back, we found two white lanterns. We chose one for Aunt Hania — and one for the stranger’s story, which we never even got her name, now etched in us like a quiet flame.

Back at the grave, we lit the candles. A hush settled—the sound of reverence.

These simple gestures — buying lanterns, lighting candles, and hugging a stranger—were acts of remembrance. Of connection. Of breathing again in places that once asked us to hold our breath.

We lit the candles, and a quiet peace settled over us under the soft glow of the lanterns.

They reminded us that even in cemeteries, you can find inspiring stories — if you look for them and are open to hearing them.

They reminded us that a piece of Poland might also be a piece of ourselves.