Yet another assignment I'm all too proud of
When I die, I want to be cremated. I want none of that bury my body intact nonsense; char me to a crisp. I’d rather be ashes than worm food, pumped full of formaldehyde and stuffed in a box. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Send my soul to heaven and my body to the four winds to be inhaled by a thousand living or drank by a thousand streams. The idea of shriveling up, drying out and molding away underground is what disgusts me. When I die, I want to be cremated, but please, give me a marker. Let me have a story.
I walked through the cemetery today. I walked up and down the rows of the dead, uprooting bouquets of fake poinsettias and dismantling wreaths. A group of about twenty of us swarmed through the grave yard and stripped it nearly bare, lining up our pickings on the side of the road to be taken away by other members of our group. It was sad, taking down the Christmas decorations, but not as sad as leaving them up past Easter. He is risen! He is risen, indeed, Alleluia! That is what we all say on Easter. I picture the city of dead on the Last Day, rising like the dry bones Elijah prophesied over.
The Bible says that we shall rise again and be whole with our body and our spirit on the Last Day. I figure if God can do anything with a thought, then piecing my dust back in together shouldn’t be too hard. It seems to me like it’s untrusting to believe your body needs to be buried whole. When I die, I want to be cremated, but please, give me a marker. Let me have a story.
I walked through the cemetery today. I walked up and down the rows of the dead, reading the names and dates. I imagine what their lives were like.
One couple had their nuptial portrait on their combined stone. A ribbon tied together two rings above the picture and read the date of their marriage. It said they were married in 1990, and they were both born in the 1930s. He died five years after they were married. Looking at their picture, I imagine they were his happiest years. She joined him two years ago. I wonder what it would be like, waiting until the end of my life to find happiness. Would it be worth the wait? Would I be so patient? I thank God every day that I am happy and that my loneliness has been replaced at so young an age.
I walked on.
Two women were buried next to each other with the same name. I was looking for Ronald McDonald but instead I found two Abby McDonalds next to each other. One Abby died the same day she was born. The second Abby was old enough to be her mother, and lived a while after the first Abby died. I imagine she must have named her daughter after herself. I imagine she said she died the day her newborn died. I wonder if I would have the same reaction. I wonder if I could insult my family and friends so much as to make them bury me with my stillborn child. I’d like to think I’d find peace despite the pain. I wonder if the older Abby hopes she sees her daughter first when they rise again.
I imagine my own grave. I imagine my own death. Will it hurt? Will someone put a wreath on my grave and then wait until Easter to take it away again? I imagine what stories some unknowing girl will make up about me when I’m gone and all that remains is my stone. I imagine my stone joining me as dust as the ages pass.
For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is Eternal Life through Christ. Yes, it is the debt all men must pay, except Elijah, who was taken up into heaven in a fiery chariot still living. I want to go out in flames as well. When I die, I want none of that bury my body intact nonsense; char me to a crisp. When I die, I want to be cremated, but please, give me a marker. Let me have a story.