The 13th Psalm

TheDayofAshes

The coffin is too small.

That's the first thing I notice.

Not the flowers. Not the people. Not the pastor reading words like he's

memorized pain and spit it out in cliches.

Just the box. Closed. Plain. Wood-grained like that makes it softer.

It doesn't.

I sit in the front row, knees locked, hands folded like I care what happens

next. Mom hasn't blinked in twenty minutes. Her mouth keeps twitching,

like she's trying to speak through shock. Like if she says something-

anything-it might bring him back.

It won't.

Luke is dead.

Everyone keeps calling it a "tragedy."

No one calls it what it is: proof that God doesn't listen.

I don't cry.

I did that already. In the hospital. In the hallway. In the backseat of a

stranger's car when they drove us home and the world didn't stop spinning

even though Luke's heart had.

He died on his way to lead worship.

Tell me again how prayer works.