Was it a morning like this?
I love this question.
It joins me to that day of when the women ran to the tomb
and found it empty
and the death clothes folded neatly to the side.
This morning, with morning hair atop and cup o' coffee in hand
standing in the front doorway
inhaling the pollen and morning sun
while Charlie dog darted out into the wild suburban world
and all is well in my world…
Was it a morning like this?
With my neighbor's jasmine sending up aromatic prayers
and the owl behind the house hooting a call
and Howard still sleeping…
Was it a morning like this?
As I sit here, all caffeinated
the prodigal Charlie returned from his walk-and-sniffabout
Howard waking
Friend Betty heading up to get ready for Easter service
I am wondering what to do with this morning.
The despair of Friday
giving way to a Saturday waiting
and Sunday celebration
of hope
new life
reason
purpose
and love.
What to do when this morning becomes tonight
and I stub my toe on an old hurt
or tomorrow when – while running, my heart breaks in the missing of friends and family
or I pass the guys in the median who's arms are heavy with newspapers and hearts as crinkled as their sunburnt skin.
What to do with this message of hope, life, reason, purpose, and love?
And I guess the real question
that comes to this wayward sheep is
Knowing that the tomb was empty
do I keep this joy to myself?
Am I willing to be inconvenienced to meet the people who scare the bejesus out of me?
Will I offer the water I keep in the car to the thirsty harsh-looking guys at the stoplight?
Will I begin to live like the tomb was empty.
Because whether you believe it or not
I do.
And this morning reminds me
not of eggs and bunnies and tulips
but of suffering
sacrifice
radiance
worship
miracle
and joy
encountered each day
in this life
and the lives of the people
who scare the bejesus out of me
who sell the Houston Chronicle in the median
who hate me
who sit in their suburban beautiful homes
and wonder what makes this morning so special.
I'm not very smart.
I am a distracted sheep
prone to straying
Too fluffy
still gimpy from battle scars
and my own foolishness.
I will not debate with you to win.
I cannot win.
But I can offer you
the offense of the cross
as it points to fresh water
and hope
and life
and reason
and suffering
and sacrifice
and radiance
and worship
and miracle
and joy
and mystery.
Baaaaa.
* * * * *
Consider clicking this link to a favorite song. I'm not what you'd call a fan of Sandy Patty or of this style of music, but this song bring reason and mystery and worship and joy to a morning like this. (I can't watch it. I just close my eyes and listen.)
