(or what comes after) Not one but two deaths, to hammer home that we are but dust, as if smearing ashes on the forehead just wasn’t enough. A memorial service, followed by another vigil, sandwiched between math tests, Latin vocab and baking bread. Old stories heard fresh reread and retold through a book of wild creatures – A WIld Hope indeed. A retreat, beautiful and sweet teenagers, also beautiful but sometimes less than sweet and flowers from him, just because. Holy Week: a chance to walk through the passion, not avert my gaze. Witness suffering, together with my church feel the sorrow, grieve the losses, wait. Waking that morning. the only morning, to feeble sunshine, rushing wind, baskets of candy pastel eggs, a new day. Church again, and the same wooden cross I touched then, was now becoming something new I had a part in creating. We filed up, in groups and clumps each of us bringing ourselves and a bit of beauty. We touched and were touched in the Flowering of the Cross.
This is the first in a series of poems/posts during the liturgical season of Eastertide, the 50 days after Easter and before Pentecost. Several years ago I wrote a series during Lent and this year I am endeavoring to respond to the movement of God during this time of fullness and celebration.