Carrying the stuffed bunny, I entered the chapel’s front hallway with Jordan following closely behind me.
We were a little early, and the rector wasn’t there yet to meet up with us.
The graveyard was located in rural Kentucky about thirty minutes outside of Cincinnati. The building lay beside the shoreline of a swift-moving river that ran brown with sludge and debris, swollen from recent rains, but was still one of the most scenic properties in the area.
Like most churches these days, ours didn’t have its own cemetery and so, when dealing with issues related to congregation members passing away, I often chose Saint Lucia’s and the End of Life services they provided.
Viewings.
Memorial services.
Cremation and burial.
And, since my congregation was aging, I’d been here more than my fair share of times over the past seven years.
A pier with a small gazebo constructed on the end of it jutted into the turgid river. From what I understood, this river used to be good for fishing. A lot of rivers used to be. Maybe the pier had been built for that—probably had been—but regardless of its origin, I’d never seen anyone venture out onto its rotten-looking boards.
The chapel was named after Saint Lucia from Sicily, a woman from the fourth century who wanted to live like Jesus and voluntarily embraced poverty. She gave away her inheritance, refused to marry a man she did not love, and tried to dedicate herself fully to serving the Lord.
However, in spite, the man turned her over to the authorities and, as a Christian, she was imprisoned and then tortured to death. There was another shining example of human nature. Of fallenness. It’s who we are. Over the years Saint Lucia had become a well-known saint and an example of courage and conviction—even though it cost her her life.
As a single woman like me who was trying to follow the Lord, she was someone I’d admired ever since I first heard her story while I was at seminary.
“Kestrel,” Jordan said, “may I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Does that rabbit represent your love?”
I glanced down at the stuffed animal I was holding. “Yes.”
“Is that an important aspect of the grieving process?”
“It can be. Yes.”
“For you it is?”
“Yes.”
Rector Arch, the director of the chapel, approached us. He was thin—actually the word narrow seemed more appropriate—had a graying goatee, and wore his dark hair slicked back with a little too much product.
“We have you in the Pleasant Hills room,” he said to me. “It’s intimate, but”—he glanced at Jordan—“you mentioned that it would just be you for the viewing.”
The building had four viewing rooms, and I’d been in each of them numerous times. The one he’d referred to had stained glass windows that overlooked the slight rise of a dingy hill nearby. With just four rows of pews, it was the smallest of the rooms. Confined, but private and quiet.
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
“I should tell you that at two thirty there will be a viewing in the Harmony room on this end of the chapel, but it should be a small group.”
“Alright.”
“I know you wanted to be alone, but I’m glad to come in and say a few words or offer a prayer—if you’d like?”
“No thank you.”
“I programmed the hologram above the casket to show a couple of Bible verses. For your comfort.”
“Okay.”
He paused, then said, “We have the matter of the plot to discuss?”
He showed me a VR map of their property and I went ahead and chose a spot for my daughter. Then, using the money I’d saved up for her wedding, I purchased a small patch of scrubby ground overlooking the muddy, polluted river.
The gravesite was more expensive than I’d anticipated and I needed to tap into my own savings as well, but so be it. I would manage. I figured I’d walk out there to see the spot for myself after saying my final goodbye to Naiobi in the Pleasant Hills room.
When I was done with the financial arrangements, Jordan and I walked down the hall toward the room where my daughter waited. As we passed through the hallway, the sound of our footsteps was absorbed completely by the plush carpeting, as if even the floor were trying to respect the hushed mood of the building.
When we reached the door, I asked Jordan to wait in the hall.
“Of course.”
“It shouldn’t be too long.”
I stepped inside.
A viewing room should be a place for the unseen and the holy to live, but today this one seemed devoid of God and filled only with sad memories and dead prayers.
I passed the pews and quietly approached the tiny coffin up front. As was typical in visitations like this, the holographic Scripture passages the rector had referred to hovered above the coffin, cycling to a new verse every fifteen seconds or so.
I was glad to be alone, thankful that no one was here to see me or able to listen to my heart cries or to learn of my doubts, my crushed spirit, my anger at God.
It might not be prudent to stuff your feelings, to push your pain down deep inside of you, but right now healthy coping wasn’t my priority. Just making it through the next few minutes was.
I placed my hand on the closed casket.
Oh, Naiobi, if only I could hold you again. If only I could offer up my life for yours and give you a chance at living in this world—such a wondrous and terrible and cruel and glorious place. So much of all those, somehow, at the same time.
Though I was tempted to open the casket to look at her, I had the sense that doing so would only make things tougher—especially since I hadn’t asked the staff here to prepare her body for a viewing.
I wanted to whisper a prayer, to cherish this moment, but my prayers were all dried up.
Reverently, I laid the stuffed bunny on the coffin.
And then I looked away and covered my face in my hands and wept.
* * *
He observes her from the hallway.
The stained glass windows let in filtered, multicolored streams of light that fill the chapel.
A prism. It’s like she’s inside a prism.
Trapped in a prism of grief.
A cross up front. Simple. Wooden. The casket beside it.
And there she stands, bent and weeping.
So much sadness.
So much pain.
It feels intrusive, being so close to her at this moment, and he diverts his gaze down the hall.
He wishes he knew a way to make her feel better, to take away the pain that’s consuming her. If he could figure out what to say, he would certainly speak the truths to her that would comfort her.
But which is more important—truth or hope? If you could have only one or the other, what would you choose—truth with despair or hope built on a lie?
And he realizes he would willingly tell her a lie if it would bring her hope again. Yes, he would. Deception as a gift to the suffering. And it’s a strange revelation—that hope in this moment might be more of a benefit to her than the truth would be.
Moments ago, she placed the rabbit on the casket as a symbol of her love. If only he had a symbol of love as well.
Studying his surroundings, he notices a pile of printed bulletins left over from a previous viewing on a small table just down the hall. Actual sheets of paper printed as mementos for mourners, now likely waiting to be recycled.
He picks one up.
It isn’t the right shape, but with a simple fold and a single tear along the crease, he makes it square.
Perfect. And so, he begins to fold.
* * *
After I’d dried my tears with some of the tissues provided on one of the pews, I stood in silence and watched the holographic Bible verses appear one at a time above the coffin before fading away as the next verse materialized:
“Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live’” (John 11:25).
“And after my skin is destroyed, this I know, That in my flesh I shall see God” (Job 19:26).
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4).
“For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life” (2 Corinthians 5:4).
That last verse struck me the most.
The others were shared often enough at funerals, but the words from Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians weren’t nearly as well-known.
Mortality swallowed up by life.
It was a nice thought.
We groan. We carry burdens. We dwell in these tents—earth suits that bear such diaphanous and easily pierced fabric—as we journey across the sloping arc of the earth on our short trips to the grave.
The tents are all so temporary.
We are all so temporary.
The idea that death might be swallowed up by life was tough to believe at a time like this. When the grave takes those you care about, it sure doesn’t seem like there’s any victory there, or that life is swallowing anything. It sure seems like death is the one coming out ahead.
Swallowing life.
And hope.
And dreams.
Devouring so, so many of the things that matter most.
At last, when I was finished, I rejoined Jordan in the hallway and saw that he had something in his hand.
“What is that?” I asked curiously. “What do you have there?”
He held it up.
A sheet of paper, folded into an origami animal.
“A rabbit?”
“Yes. May I put it on her coffin?”
“Why?”
“To represent my love.”
“But you never met her, Jordan. You never knew her.”
“I know her mother, though, and I’ve seen how much she loved her. Is that enough?”
At first I was going to try to dissuade him, but finally I said, “Yes. It is.”
Jordan entered the chapel, walked up front, and gently set the origami rabbit beside the stuffed bunny I’d left behind. Then he returned to the hall.
“Thank you, Jordan.”
“I wish I had more to offer.”
I put a hand on his arm. “This is plenty.”
I wanted to go see the place where Rector Arch and his associates would be burying my daughter so I asked him for a map of the grounds and he uploaded one to Jordan’s system, and then we took off.