In-Laws

It was a rainy day in spring when we buried our Sarah. Rainy and cold, not unlike the girl herself when she'd first come to join our family. She was beautiful, yes---as beautiful as my son, Hosea, deserved---but there was an iciness about her. I wanted to love her as a mother should. I tried. God knows I tried. Many times throughout their short marriage, I would offer my service and knowledge to her. Each time she refused. She was polite enough, of course, but her eyes---there was a blankness in them that sent a tingle up my spine.

God forgive me, but I was more relieved than not when she died. Naturally, my relief was, in part, because she had been so ill for weeks and now seemed well past her agonies. But, of course, that wasn't all. Mostly, I felt as if God had reached down and lifted what would have surely been a great, dark weight on my poor son's life. He had always been such a warm and loving boy. He deserved so much more than a wife like Sarah.

It was because of the lightness I felt at Sarah's passing that I had barely any tears to cry as my three sons and their father carried Sarah's coffin out into the field. I walked behind them, side by side with Lydia, the wife of my eldest, Zachary. Though we had never spoken openly on the subject, I was sure our opinion of Sarah had been the same. Lydia knew how to be a loving wife. A year and a half into her marriage, she was already carrying my second grandchild. Who knows how long it would have taken Sarah to fulfill her wifely promise?

At last, we reached the place where poor Sarah would rest forever. The men had toiled late into the night preparing the spot which now lay open and deep, a mound of earth heaped beside it. Here, they set the coffin down. My husband, ever the solemn leader of this family, took his place at the head, Holy Bible in hand, and was flanked soon after by Zachary and his brother, Paul, each with their shovels, ready to act. Hosea, the picture of despondent grief, took his place beside me at the foot of the coffin. It pained me to see him in such a condition, but it is true what the Good Book says: all things work together for good. This, we would soon find out.

Halfway through my husband's reading, a strange sound rose to our ears. He fell silent. Those in attendance looked from one person to another, asking without words if anyone but they themselves had heard the noise. It came again. A groaning. There was no mistaking it. All eyes fixated on the source of the noise: Sarah's coffin.

After a moment, the groaning gave way to a different sort of sound. One that was more structured, more like language in nature. The wooden box that enclosed Sarah muffled and obscured her words, and before long, they were not words anymore. Dampened screams soon issued forth from the coffin. Screams, scratches, and knocks came at a frantic pace as the structure began to shake and rock. It could not be denied: the woman we thought had died now clawed at the lid of her own coffin which had been nailed shut over her just moments prior.

All gazes now moved to Hosea. He had told us she was dead. He had tended to her during her sickness, allowing no one else, including myself, to do so. How could he have made such a blunder? His eyes told the story. I know my son's face well enough. In those eyes, I saw shock, fear... and guilt. I knew in an instant what had taken place. We all did.

I followed Hosea's gaze to his father. There, I'm sure we both expected to find a Christlike scowl of judgment. Instead, we saw a soft, forgiving smile: the very face of understanding.

And so it was settled. The gentlemen hurriedly placed the coffin into the waiting ground. Sarah's enclosed screams could still be heard as they dropped the earth upon her with the shovels they had, and Lydia and I ran off to fetch two more.