After the lament during the Lenten season, Easter Sunday exploded with joyful sounds, colors, tastes and words. None more doom shattering than, “Christ is risen!”
We couldn’t seem to say it enough yesterday in church, along with pent-up Alleluias.
As I’ve grown older and observed Lent, Easter feels like a stone rolled away from a place where Hope lay buried.
Death hates Hope.
Tries to drown it in our tears, choke it with out doubts and fears.
Sometimes it works.
Then, Easter happens.
Christ shows up on our road to Emmaus, and suddenly Hope lives again when we eat supper together.
We plod back to our duties(for some disciples that was fishing) after death destroys our hopes, then Hope shows up on our shore, cooking breakfast.
You, me and Hope.
Winnie the Pooh, a bear with a theological bent said, “It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn’t use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like,’What about lunch?'”
After church yesterday, beautiful flowering plants were given out, a tradition started years ago by a member with a generous heart who grew flowers. When I went to pick up one, Lily said”Momo, it’s for the children.”
Well, they gave me one.
As someone wrote, ‘I don’t know how to act my age—I’ve never been this old before.”
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