My world is hushed.
The sun, low in the western sky, lovingly throws its warm rays over spring’s first offerings.
Buds on old gnarled trees tentatively present small green leaves.
Young eager trees stretch for the skies, small blossoms on every slender branch.
Mature trees draw gasps from passersby,
their beauty signalling nature’s salute to spring with blossom glory.
Stillness spreads over all.
So very quiet.
Does nature know?
This is a sad day, a holy day, a beloved man lies in his grave.
He also waits, waiting to burst the bonds of his tomb,
to feel again the warmth of the air,
see the glory of the flowering plants,
smell the scent of the blossoms.
Resurrection – will it come?
The mountains beyond our valley hold high their snow-capped peaks
shimmering in the dying light.
A breeze brushes my face.
I sense a whisper. “We wait, and wait – will the resurrection come again?”
The weary world waits and wonders.
Spring comes again.
Will this be the one that ushers in what we wait for – our healing resurrection?
The mountains whisper, “We will see.”