We will spend the majority of our lives trying to convince each other that our life is something special; and when we die those closest to us will faintly recognize the extraordinary process it was. I can imagine God, lounging in an old dark leather chair, atop a studio apartment in the old part of some English town in the late 1800's, sipping from His favorite coffee mug, stirring into the wee hours of the night, pen in hand, weaving a story together piece by piece, feeling every twist and turn as if they reached out and grabbed Him, carefully placing each character and event in their perfect pose, and as the pages fill slowly before His raised eyebrow and slight smirk an epic flows out of his fingertips and into his feather and slowly seeps dark into pages. I can imagine as He pens the final words that tears would probably well up in His eyes and fall from His cheek and upon the words sprawled out in front of Him. Then, slowly he would gather his work and sit in front of it reluctantly for a moment, and then from somewhere deep inside joy would spread across his face as He lunged forward with outstretched arms, grasped His work and embraced it as closely as He could.
It will be much easier in the funeral home to cope with death if we ignore the supernatural story life really was, and how death was its tragic end, and wonderful catalyst.