Burial: (n) the action or practice of interring a dead body.

Only twice in my life have I stood at the graveside to observe the burial of a loved one.

On both occasions, I felt neither sadness nor reassurance–sadness over losing the individual, and reassurance that somewhere they were being embraced by delighted angels welcoming them home.

Although I am a believer in God, I find that death is a great deterrent to my faith, and discourages my hope. Because many times I have been at the burial of a bug, a mouse, a cat, a dog or viewed animals slain as I drove on the highway on a summer’s day.

On the two occasions when I was staring at the caskets of dear souls I knew, I couldn’t get over the familiar sensation that swept over my being on seeing a rotting deer on Interstate 40, lying motionless on the berm.

There was no life.

There was no continuation.

There was just an end.

I don’t like burials. They remind me that we are all heading into the ground to turn back into the dust of our alleged beginning. It is difficult to comprehend that such an action could be the first step to eternal life.

Unfortunately for me, it feels like the merciful, necessary disposal of road kill.


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