Good Friday

This was not five hundred years ago or even one hundred and fifty; it is today.

It was a difficult resurrection again today

from the warmth of my overnight tomb

and I wondered with doubt whether going to church

was an appropriate response to the death of God;

but, with duty I did—

although without anticipation or expectation.

I was greeted with poetry and pottery,

the sung and spoken word with feeling,

provocative and dramatic tableaux,

the pounding and tickling of keys on strings,

silence haunting and beautiful (I could use more of this in church),

and an art walk to Emmaus;

I don’t know if I encountered divinity

but Niagara was waiting behind my eyes.

Then my granddaughter

gave me a glimpse of Easter early

as she pirouetted around the parking lot

with last season’s sticks and leaves in hand

and the unblemished purity

of just being

alive.

 

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