I once depicted death as a creature black as tar. Its body was ever-shifting, ever-changing. My creature had too many limbs and too many eyes. It once was tall and wide and miserably powerful. I made it small and weak against its Captor. And it was, I know that I know that I know that it was defeated. It was crushed and killed and completely destroyed. Its power now is only earthly—not heavenly.
But now, I would depict death as a hole in the ground. A pit deep and horrible, big enough to throw yourself into and never escape of. Spiraling ever onward, grief that ruins homes and life. That steals our happy days, our precious moments. A trench for war that hides an ambush. A hidden staircase that can only be climbed with tears and endurance.
I would depict death as donning black on our bodies and tears on our faces.
I would depict death as being relieved by someone’s painlessness and horrified by their passing.
I would depict death as refusing to smile because you know that someone’s heart has stopped pumping.
I would depict death as being confused by others’ happiness.
I would depict death as wearing the same clothes you wore the day they died.
I would depict death as saying... “Goodbye, Stung.”
My grandpa, Stung, died recently. I took it pretty hard. But Stung was really, really sick there at the end. And I was able to minister to him just an hour before he passed. This is what I wrote for his funeral, but I couldn't get up on stage and say it. Thanks for reading.
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