Clara Ostrowski's great-uncle James died at Cold Harbor in 1864. His name appeared in a pension record but nowhere on the ground. When a Resting volunteer mapped the unmarked section of Elmwood Cemetery in Roanoke last spring, a GPS pin appeared beside a stone so weathered it read only a partial surname and the year. Clara drove six hours. She brought flowers she'd pressed from her mother's garden. She knelt in the grass for a long time before she said anything at all.

Duane Harrelson has been president of the Mount Carmel Cemetery Association in rural Arkansas for nineteen years. When he started, the records were handwritten ledgers dating to 1887 — some in ink so faded the names had become shapes. Resting sent a team of eight volunteers for three consecutive Saturdays in July. They photographed every page, transcribed every name, and cross-referenced against state death certificates. Mount Carmel's records are now searchable online. Duane keeps one of the original ledgers on his desk. He says it's lighter now, somehow.

Renata Vásquez has directed funerals at Sycamore Hill Memorial Park in San Antonio for fourteen years. The cemetery's paper records were organized by plot number — useful if you knew the plot, useless if you only knew the name. After Resting mapped all 6,400 graves last autumn, Renata prints a QR code on the service program. Families scan it at the graveside and see exactly where their loved one rests — and every other family member buried nearby, going back four generations. She says two families have discovered relatives they didn't know were buried in the same cemetery.