It was as though we walked in procession to her daughters wedding chamber. A sick joke. For although her daughter lay in a virgin gown of white, there were no jewels, no veil, no laughter. Instead, she lay stiff yet somehow crumpled on a bed of plastic and metal, held in by a frame as though imprisoned in a box.
Her face was distorted, swollen and grotesque, a bloodied gauze by her nose. Uncontrollable tears coursed their way down masked faces, each bosom heaving with the reality of the words her mother haltingly breathed, 'I can't stand to look at her. She doesn't look like my baby any more'.
I could both understand and relate. It was in the face of grief I remembered the destructive nature of the power of what we breathe, air. The supreme force with which oxygen can be buried into a body has the ability to annihilate the delicacy of what it touches. Almost like a game, to reach out and stroke such a hand in the heart of this storm would be like popping bubble wrap.
Such can be the face death. Not beautiful, not divine, but threateningly real. And yet within its midst, we remember to praise our Lord.
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