It is still soggy in Indiana. The ground has thawed and the creeks are swollen. The bottom land is too muddy for a walk, and in some places, there is so much water standing in the fields that the mallards are confused about where to build their nests.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
But the smell of earth tells me that I can start clearing the thick layer of last fall’s leaves from my raised garden frames and maybe prepare to stir some additional fertilizer into the black dirt underneath.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
The daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips are in full bloom; the forsythia bushes are an outrageous shade of yellow, and the tips of the redbuds are bright pink along the edges of the Indiana woods. If I tightly hold the branches of the lilacs in my hand, I can feel life, almost a pulse of sap pumping up the stem to the swollen tips of each twig.
I use my small hand rake to carefully move the leaves away from the soil in my vegetable frames. I work my way from one corner to the other, putting the leaves into a basket for mulching until I reach the opposite corner. What is this? A wad of hair tangled in the decaying leaves makes me stop. I carefully lift the tangle. A nest of tiny pink bunnies, tightly intertwined, move. The mother rabbit has covered them carefully against the chill that is still in the air. I quickly replace the leaves and the fur she has pulled from her own body to keep them warm and hidden. The moment is almost a prayer.
Life is throbbing everywhere. No wonder there have been ancient rites of spring: dancing and music and the weaving of blossomed branches into halos and crowns to make princesses and princes of all who spin to the glory of new life! No wonder we, too, who celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord, hold chicks and bunnies, cherry blossoms and lilies-of-the-valley just to experience the pulse of the living! No wonder we hold eggs in our hands like they are sacred and paint them with flowers and crosses and empty tombs!
Photo by Angela Kellogg
How can anyone frown and call “pagan” the joy of all nature, singing to the eternal victory of life over death? I hear the voice of the risen Christ, speaking Mary’s name, calling her back to her true self again, she who once was split into seven personalities. Can you feel her fear that without her Lord she may splinter again? But He speaks her name. Mary. She is whole again and forever. Then He speaks again, this time with the gentle command, “Now, go and tell the disciples—and Peter. I am risen from the dead.”
Don’t we all in the dark days of despair, in the winter of our discontent, feel ourselves sliding into the pit of doubt, questioning everything we were so sure we believed? But then comes the morning. Night turns into day! Our stone is rolled away! Hope comes with the dawn. Yes!
Winter cannot win. Death is doomed. Every lime-green blade of grass, every thawing stream, every insistent sprout declares the power of Life! So, yes, dance! Weave crowns of daisies and dandelions. Cuddle the furry bursts of pussywillow catkins and smell the fertile warmth of a fistful of earth. Cheer every unfolding sprout that bursts through the brown skin of a seed!
Jesus has risen to rename us, empower us, and to dispel pessimism with hope and joy and the strongest, deepest peace. HE IS RISEN! Our Lord is alive, and, thank God, so are we!
