Wednesday, April 4, 2018


I didn’t go to church on Easter Sunday. The prospect of close proximity to so much seasonal finery was just too daunting. There is no way I could have been able to remember the names for all the faces I hadn’t seen since last spring. Instead, I took a walk with Simon out under the blazing blue April sky. The air was full of Resurrection there, too.

Along our way, we met our neighbor working in his garden. We waved and went back to our personal religious rituals. Him, treading the maze of his vegetable rows; me, walking the labyrinth of Saluda streets.

One could have a worse religion than gardening. On that first Easter morning, Mary thought Jesus was the gardener, until he spoke her name. The enlivening language that soil speaks to seed is the same Word by which God enlivens souls.

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