There is a little girl with golden brown curls, sobbing her heart out. Barely five, she wails loudly, clinging to her mother. We all feel her pain as we stand around heart broken, and she is young enough to not be ashamed of her sorrow.
Only 2 hours ago the great grandkids had gathered out the front around the coffin. An informal circle. Reached out tentatively to touch the wood. "Pa's in there." they said. They were ushered to their seats by their parents while their minds tried to grasp life and death at the front of the church, as we got ready to celebrate his life.
And now the little girl had suddenly realised they were taking her great grandfather away and he was never coming back. Her father leads the grandsons who carry the coffin on their shoulders out of the church with a faded collection of medals on his chest. Grown men with crumpled faces and vacant eyes.
They carefully place the coffin into the hearse and stand there, while we stay on the steps clutching each other with tears streaming.
I don't think my tears have stopped since we first walked in and I saw the coffin out the front. There isn't sobs, just a steady stream of tears. Shouldn't they dry up some time soon?
I know Pa is happy, and rejoicing with his Lord.
Yet the missing him aches.
Oh God, isn't it time for heaven yet?