The Casket

I walked in, and there it was… the same one I’d seen for the fifth time in 4 years.

I don’t know what kind of wood it is, but I know the color. It’s the color of grief. I guess grief looks like warm wood grain. Not shiny.

The lid opens the same as it always did. The white crepe is pleated and lined with gentleness—a satin pillow to let the end rest easily.

I told my cousin Nichoel, “Do you realize this is the 5th time our family has rented this casket?” It sucked the breath out of me, saying it out loud. I wouldn’t wish that reality on my worst enemy.

I walked up to it slowly, holding my mom’s hand while my grandma’s arm looped through mine. I didn’t want to see it, not again. But I did, because grief said, “go,” and grief was in charge in that moment.

Yep. The wood I saw four times before that. Yep. The same satin. Yep, the same thin lines on the side. But this time it held more tears. You couldn’t see the tears, but I knew they were there.

Tears soaked through the satin when my cousin Chris was murdered, and we rented that waiting space to hold him for a little bit longer while we said goodbye. Tears from his kids. From friends. Oh, my grandma’s tears.

Then there were more tears when my aunt Sherri left this world abruptly, and we rented that waiting space to hold her for a little bit longer while we said goodbye. Tears from her kids. From her grandkids. From friends. I kissed her forehead with tears. And oh, my grandma’s tears.

Then more tears came when my Grandpa stopped suffering and took his final breath, and we rented that waiting space to hold him for a little bit longer while we said goodbye. Tears from his kids. From friends. From grandkids. And tears from my grandma that represented a thousand different stages of grief from 70+ years of life with him – a life that wasn’t for the faint of heart. Oh, my grandma’s tears.

Then, there were more tears when my aunt Vicki succumbed to the hands of a man who was supposed to honor her and care for her, and we rented that waiting space to hold her for a little bit longer while we said goodbye. Tears of confusion. Tears of anger. Tears of forgiveness. And oh, Grandma’s tears. Tears of a mother burying the third child in two years. Those kinds of tears will shake you. Oh, my grandma’s tears.

Here’s the crazy thing. Our family didn’t get a break from death, but we got a break from that casket when Reven and Avery died in the accident, because their funeral was held 15 minutes away.

And I remember walking into the gymnasium, because we needed a bigger space for all the people, and seeing their caskets. I remember feeling a sense of relief that I didn’t have to look at that rented casket one more time.

Sounds weird, I know. But grief isn’t one-size-fits-all.

And in the in-between of all that, death didn’t stop. We just got a break from that casket when my Grandma buried her sister and two brothers. Other caskets held her tears while she said goodbye.

And then… for the 5th time, a couple of months ago, I saw that damn casket again when Brian left this world, and we rented that waiting space to hold him for a little bit longer while we said goodbye. And there I stood again, knowing all the tears that had fallen in the weight of goodbyes. And this time, more tears fell. Tears of a young widow who had her life planned out with the man she loved. Tears from his kids, who never get to say goodbye again. Tears from so many friends. And then… I watched Grandma drop more tears.

That warm, wooden box holds the pain of The Woolleys. It holds secrets. It holds memories full of laughter. It holds memories of darkness. It holds hope. Fear. Joy. Grief. And tears. So many tears.

And then I’m reminded that God keeps track of all of our sorrows. He collects all our tears in a bottle. (Psalm 56:8) Ahh.. yes… the tears that casket holds have no comparison to the tears God holds for us. That brings comfort in the grief.

My prayer is that there isn’t a 6th time. My prayer is that that casket full of tears never catches another one of my grandma’s tears, or any of ours for that matter.

And if there ever is another time, I hope that casket doesn’t recognize us.