An actual coffin, taking up the space between the door and the stairs.
Glen’s recording a video for Easter and apparently, it’s a key prop. But this is stretching it.
It’s woven, so Glen says:
“Think of it as a big picnic basket,”
“Right,” I think. A big, coffin-shaped picnic basket. With lining.
And look, I’ve tried.
I covered it with a tablecloth. Some flowers. A basket of fruit.
It’s still a coffin.
I pad towards it in my pjs. “Morning,” it says. “Good day planned? Anything nice? Make the most of it, BECAUSE DEATH COMES TO US ALL.”
I step over it, to get to the buggy. “Careful,” it says, “You don’t want to DIE.”
The doorbell rings. “Mind the coffin,” I say. The postman looks at me.
I close the door and trip over it.
“Careful,” says the coffin. “Nearly a DEADLY accident there.”
And so it continues. Death in the hallway. Death in the living room. Death in the bathroom. Death in the dishes.
I make light of it. (“Just a prop,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”)
I try to ignore it. (But it’s bigger than me.)
I use euphemisms. (“That thing. In the hall. You know; the container.“)
I minimise it. (“Nothing to be scared of. Just a basket.”) For bodies. And I am scared.
Finally, I face it. Try to lift it. The weight is too much.
I’m angry with it. Sitting there. Casting shadows all across the house.
It’s Monday and I don’t need this. I don’t want to be blogging about death. It’s like hitting someone when they’re already down.
If it were a boyfriend, I’d dump it.
If it were a plate, I’d smash it.
If it was a fly, I’d chase it.
If it were rubbish, I’d bin it.
But it’s here. In my home and my head. I can’t make it disappear.
I turn my back on it and climb the stairs. At the top I see another reminder of death. A picture of Jesus, painted by a friend, (see here).
“I am alive! I was dead and, behold, I am alive forever, Amen. I have the keys of death and the grave.” (Revelation 1:18).
I look downstairs. The coffin is still there; sitting in my hallway. “Death comes for us all,” it whispers.
But it’s smaller now. I’ve got someone else to lift it. Someone who’s coming, to take it away.
I look up and see the God who is present, even in the grave. Who rises victorious over it – and takes us with Him.
I give them eternal life. They will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father has given them to me. He is greater than all and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand, (John 10:38-9).