I threw a wake at somebody’s birthday party. I didn’t tell anybody, though. I had decided it was time to give Soft Places, my first proper manuscript, a Christian burial.
I sipped my drink, watched the sunset light up the sky and described the first scene to a rapt audience around a blazing fire. Some people said they would love to read it. I told them that perhaps one day they would, but for now, it rests underground.
A Christian burial is, after all, not an absolute end. The rites of Christian burial inevitably speak of the hope of resurrection.