It might have been called a chapel but I found no God or spirituality there and it might have had the word rest in its title but I found no comfort. The chapel of rest brought me nothing but despair and confusion. And my grandad didn’t look at rest.
It was one of the true regrets of my life, seeing him that way. He was cold, hard and his colouration was slightly purple. He was just a husk, dried up. Dead. Seeing him like that meant that the word dead now had real meaning to me. Everything about the place was too sterile and chemical. Not right. And later as we lowered his coffin into the grave to the strains of “morning has broken” the spectre of death hung over us.
Copyright John de Gruyther 2016