READ: EPHESIANS 2:1-10 My skin is cold. Though I can’t know for sure how cold—since corpses can’t feel anything. They can’t do anything at all, really. If I had the ability to touch, I’d feel the icy, rough dirt that holds my stiff body in place. I’d feel the maggots wriggling their muculent bodies around the tips of my fingers, inside my ears, around my mouth, at the corners of my eyes. If my sense of smell were working, I’d smell the aroma of rotting things decomposing beneath the earth’s surface. If my tear ducts worked, I might wail as I thought on the fact that I am among them, my body food for the creatures that never see sunlight. But I can do none of those things. Because I am dead. And when a person is dead, that is all they can do. Nothing. This is my fate. To do nothing. To be nothing. To know nothing. To love nothing. Until the moment that it isn’t my fate anymore. Suddenly, the dirt is being pushed away from my body. Gentle hands are brush...