The Coffinmaker: a short film by Dan McComb

Educative & engaging


CoffinmakerI have known only one coffin maker. To my knowledge he built only one coffin. It was carefully crafted with all the love he could pour into the task. It was a small coffin, just large enough to hold his nine-year-old granddaughter. I remember watching the wood-shavings fall gently to the shop floor; more poignantly than tears. When his task was complete, children gently, quietly, reverently placed small stuffed animals inside to keep their playmate company on a journey they did not understand. One little boy picked up a few of the wood-shavings, looked toward the grandfather, raised the shavings to his lips and kissed them. When everyone left, I mimicked the child’s actions and then placed several wood-shavings into my pocket. As the coffin maker helped his son lower the precious cargo into the ground, I fingered the wood-shavings; a gesture of gratitude for the strength they provided. “If…

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A day at the funeral. (Poem)


Pastor's Ponderings

I buried a man today
Ten years my junior
Stark, the room
Cold the assurances
As the fragile breath
Sighed no more.
Sleek alabaster carpets
With leaves enwrapped
As if half in protection
Coddled close the precious
Solemn the day light slipped
Past windows half closed
Curtains half drawn
Yet unnoticed, we bid farewell.
Sorrow, this despised guest,
Beckoned us to come
And with eyes
heavy with mourning
We duly obliged.
Yet as prayer and song
Evaporated past these lobby doors
I swear I saw him there
Glimpsing one last time
At what he missed,
He nodded to me
Seeing me there…
and i knew that
The sunset was not
too far


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The Rooster and the Sun

Well written… Nice

Tides and Turning

The old rooster crowed each day
From as far back as he could remember.
He ruffled his feathers and gave his cry
Without fail from January to December.

But now he was old and could barely crow,
Knowing that he was near death.
With his head bowed,
fighting for breath,

He lamented,

‘It is too bad I must die,
Though I cannot stall it.
For the sun will not rise
If I am not here to call it.

‘I mourn for the world that must live in the dark
Without the sun whom I wake.
Not a coo from a dove or a cry from a lark
will ever take my crow’s place.’

Then came his last breath of air,
As he lay there and die.
And confirmed was his fear,
For the sun did not rise,

At least for him.

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