Holy Ground

Went to visit family in Colorado over Easter.  This tree is across the street from my mom's.  And the town is full of such trees.  It was literally raining blossoms all week.  The street gutters full of fallen petals, lawns scattered with a softly speckled carpet of frangrant blooms.  It was enough to take my breath away.  Gorgeous.
As we get older and life draws to its conclusions, these visits have become ever more treasured, more translucent.  This Easter God rained down his tenderest mercies and I could not miss the sacred beauty that surrounded me.  Blossoms, yes, but also my brothers playful smile, mom's knowing hand placed on mine, a daughter's contentment, sitting close, girls laughing, gratitude expressed and received, train whistles and night stars, kindness, ourselves crowded around the table for the simple sake of being together and enjoying the good company of each.  Blessings too numerous to count, so many blown past me and gone, but I see the beautiful carpet at my feet, making up the very ground on which I stand.  I sat on the curb and slipped off my shoes.  Felt a bit of heaven under my feet.  Wiggled my toes in gratitude.

HAPPY EASTER

Every year it happens:
earth shakes her sleepy head,
still a bit wintered and dull,
and feels new life stirring.

Every year cocoons give up their treasures,
fresh shoots push through brown leaves,
seemingly dead branches shine with green,
and singing birds find their way home.

Every year we hear the stories:                                                                                                                     empty tomb, surprised grievers,
runners with news and revelation,
unexpected encounters,
conversations on the road,
tales of nets filling with fish,
and breakfast on a seashore.

And every year
the dull and dead in us
meets our Easter challenge:

to be open to the unexpected,
to believe beyond our security,
to welcome God in every form,
and trust in our own greening.

— Joyce Rupp