Coffin

When I first saw the coffin it was half-finished. Lying amidst a pile of saw dust, it was a crude little thing, but somehow appropriate. Hard, twisted redwood had somehow been fashioned into a 3 foot long box with bottom, back and sides just waiting for the front and top to be able to enclose a little boy's body.

As I walk up to the container where Jeremy and Jonathan are making the coffin, I am struck by the cold beauty of the surroundings. A steel blue sky with gray angry clouds releases a slight drizzle of rain onto the African plain watering the wet sand and scrub bushes. A smattering of mango and Shea butter trees break up the monotony of the flat expanse. A group of tired grave diggers rest against the trunk of a tree to the right. Straight ahead is the beginnings of Gary's airplane hangar with the two old 20 foot containers making up the end of the hangar. Around the half-open doors of one container is gathered a crowd of mostly children with a smattering of adults all peering intently at the two white men making a coffin.

The purr of a small Honda generator is broken intermittently by the harsh roar of a power saw and the shocking pounding of large nails into hard wood. A cool breeze tries to soften the atmosphere which is heavy with grief. I squeeze through the crowd just in time to help Jeremy and Jonathan lift up the coffin, measure around and make the final trimmings. The wood is so hard that holes have to be drilled before nailing or the nails will bend. We place the small head piece on and Jeremy hammers the nails home. The only thing left is to place a small boy, recently alive and well, into the interior and hammer it shut until resurrection day.

The Adventist Youth Society has arrived in their sharp olive and tan uniforms. Jeremy, Jonathan and a couple of local men pick up the heavy burial box and lug it over to Gary and Wendy's humble abode. They place the casket gently on a simple wooden bed on the porch and wait for the final step.

Cherise, Gary and Wendy's two and a half year old daughter, runs in with a smile proudly showing off the cartoonish horse and car that Sarah has drawn on the back of her hands with a green marker.

It's almost time. Neighbors and friends are gathering outside. The rain continues to sprinkle the event as lighting flashes occasionally in the background. Gary looks at me. We walk silently over to the coffin and pick it up. It's rough and twisted wood bites into my hands with the weight of it's import crushing me more than it's physical gravitational force.

Followed by Wendy and Cherise we enter the house, pass through the living room and into the bedroom to the left where Caleb awaits, cold and silent. He is peacefully lying on the floor next to the two mosquito net covered mattresses where he slept with his sister. A small, baby blanket covers most of his lifeless form. Gary and I gently set the coffin down next to him. Gary lifts him up while Wendy arranges the blanket and smoothes it out over his face. Gary picks him up gently in his arms, tears streaming from his red and swollen eyes.

"Let me hold him one more time." Wendy's voice is deep and broken as she hugs her first born son for the last time on this earth.

"Cherise, do you want to kiss Caleb one more time?"; Gary asks softly.

"Yeah, daddy..."; She approaches wiping away a stray strand of pure, blond hair from her cherubic face. She leans forward, lips puckered, and places a tiny kiss on the top of Caleb's pale head.

Gary covers Caleb up again and lays him in the coffin. He fits too well. This shouldn't be happening. I sob quietly, letting the tears flow freely.

We take the even heavier coffin out to the porch where Jeremy expertly pounds the last nails home with a devastating sound of finality. It's definitely time now.

The uniformed young people wait outside. Gary and I place the coffin on the shoulders of six young Chadian girls who will bear the honors.

"Left, left, left-right-left..."; The solemn march begins as we all fall in behind while the young people sing a mournfully echoing marching song about following Jesus no matter the cost. The procession winds out the gate, around the fence, past the water tower and out towards the airstrip.

Gary's plane stares silently, it's windows covered with a tarp as if even it is too grief-stricken to observe the final steps of the young boy who loved so much to greet his daddy's return from mission flights or climb all over the cockpit dreaming of the day when he too would fly.

We march across the deep red laterite surface of the airstrip, cross a sandy path, pass through some low scrub brush and arrive at the six foot deep hole that will be Caleb's resting site until the end of the world. A pile of sandy clay with two hand made ropes strung across it lays to the side of the grave. The coffin is marched around the hole and deposited carefully on top of the ropes and dirt pile. A crowd has gathered. The wind blows. The rain falls. The universe mourns.

The service starts with a couple of French hymns that have never had much meaning for me until now.

"Jusqu'a la mort, c'est notre cri de guerre, le libre cri d'un peuple rachete, jusqu'a la mort nous te serons fideles..."; (Even unto death, it's our battle cry, the free cry of a redeemed people, even unto death we will be faithful...) Even song off tune the deep feeling of those singing it penetrates to the bottom of my heart. We are free, we are at war, their are casulties, but we don't mourn as those who have no hope...we will stay faithful...my heart wants to believe it.

"Et mon coeur n'a rien a craindre, puisque tu me conduiras. Je te suivrai sans me plaindre en m'appuyant sur ton bras." (And my heart has nothing to fear, because You are guiding me. I will follow You without complaint, leaning on your arm). A cold chill runs down my spine as I feel the presence of God. He is present. He weeps with us at this tragedy. We have nothing to fear.

After I give opening prayer, Andre exhorts us with a little eulogy reminding us that death is a sleep, that our hope is in the resurrection when Jesus comes again to reunite all of us who have abandoned our rebellion against him. Caleb's suffering is over, it's those of us left on earth who suffer, but Jesus is coming soon to wipe every tear from our eyes and destroy our last enemy, death.

Then, Gary talks about how much Caleb loved to talk about Jesus and his second coming and then he had us sing together Caleb's favorite song in English:

"When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more...when the roll is called up yonder I'll be there!";

Unfortunately, as the local gravediggers go to lay the coffin in the tomb they realize they've made the hole too small. As they rush to and fro quickly to dig the grave larger, the chorale saves the day with a some traditional, echo and repeat style African songs. Finally, the modifications are made and the coffin is slowly lowered into it's final resting place with the help of the rough ropes.

As the dirt starts to be shoveled on top of the coffin, Cherise seems to realize a little what's going on. Her heart-breaking cries and tears tear us all apart. Gary crouches down gently beside her.

"What is Caleb doing right now?";

"Sleeping, daddy."

"And when will he wake up."

"Oh yeah, when Jesus comes." Her face lights up a little and she wipes her eyes as Wendy picks her up and holds her close.

As the crowd starts spontaneously singing in Nangjere, the grave-diggers expertly create the funeral mound. A handmade hoe, a stick and the end of a shovel pound and stir the earth into place as two other men shovel the earth in and continually pick up what has fallen to the sides. Then with some final pounding with the flats of the shovels a perfectly oval mound arises as only those who've seen much death and assisted many funerals could make it.

We then turn to follow the Advent Youth as they lead us back singing the same marching songs. Arriving at the house, we follow local custom by seating Gary, Wendy and Cherise in lounge chairs along with the other participants in the memorial service while the mourners pass one by one to greet. The women curtsy and bow while solemnly shaking hands, often with two hands or the second hand touching the forearm of the right hand as they shake as a sign of respect. The men shuffle and nod somberly as they hold the hands for a long time and silently let you know they feel your loss (and they all have lost children so it means something). One crippled man on crutches hobbles in and hugs both parents while tears stream down his cheeks.

Finally, the kids file in for their respectful shaking of hands as the adults take a seat on mats spread out behind the choral which has been singing French hymns without ceasing. Annie and some of the local women serve Kool-Aid. People quietly converse. Occasional sobs burst forth. Laughter is sometimes heard. Gary and Wendy are periodically called away by phone calls from well-wishers around the world.

Dusk approaches. Noel rises and calls an end to the wake with a prayer. They graciously don't insist on their custom of singing, dancing and drumming all night long. Instead, everyone files solemnly out shaking our hands one last time. About this time, Rich and Anne, our friends from N'Djamena arrive.

The sun sets on a day that started out as any other day and quickly tumbled into an early morning ER call, a desperate last ditch effort and the laying to rest of a four year old boy in a crude, twisted coffin, resting peacefully in the African bush through the rest of this world's turmoil until the end of the world and the beginning of the next when God will wipe every tear from our eyes and our last enemy death will die as we all are reunited with those we have lost.

James