Resurrection

Christian Century, April 19, 2003 by James Drury

Resurrection

   Stillborn. 23 weeks. The hospital
   does not have a policy for this.
   I say I'm ready to go. He says he's on his way.
   I stand in front of my church,
   waiting in rain and snow,
   my prayer book tucked into one pocket.

   As we drive to the cemetery,
   he tells me what he doesn't know:
   name, paperwork, family.
   In one corner of the new children's section,
   following broken icy footprints
   we walk over other graves.

   I slip. My prayer book falls out.
   When he hands it back to me
   he calls me "Father"
   though I am not a priest.
   The backhoe has gouged out rust-colored dirt and water
   which stain the bright snow.

   We take off our caps, pull back our hoods,
   stand bare-headed in the cold,
   wonder who marks this passing.
   I pray for this unknown child,
   an invisible family, unvoiced grief.
   For two mourners.

   He lifts the casket, knees himself into the earth.
   Cold damp stains his pant legs.
   He pushes it down as far as it will go.
   Cinches the lid against rubber gaskets. Ashes to ashes.
   He holds my arm as we return to the hearse,
   knows my back problems, is solicitous.

   Jesus says, Suffer little children
   and forbid them not to come unto me
   for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
   When I proof my notes for our parish records
   I see that every place I had typed Chris
   I had typed Christ.