I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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I move through the quiet morning, watching a cluster of blackbirds arc and dive above me, vapor trails of jets, and below me the brown grass and soggy trash revealed by melting snow. New buds and a few white petals on an almond tree. Passing Our Redeemer Church, I read the marquee, usually filled with times for daily worship and a quotation from scripture, but today says only “His work is done!” Then the end of a hymn being sung and the final notes of the organ rising. And the congregation pouring out in all their joy and the children in their Easter pastels, colors we see when we close our eyes in the dark and imagine light. How we long to be lifted, carried from this world by the spiraling energy of the Psalms and wrapped in brilliant colors! Colors I long ago put away.
Arriving at my office building, I open the door someone has left unlocked all night, and walk down the long hall to my office. Sliding the key inside the brass knob, I open the door to the dark and empty room. Something inside of me rising. No one to greet us on the long road. So much work to be done.