For bedtime reading, I'm reading the kids a story called "Toaffs way. " It's about a baby squirrel born in winter experiencing life and the seasons for the first time. The chapter I just finished ended with "I wonder what spring looks like. Will it come suddenly like a storm in the night or slowly like a sneaky fox. "
I turned out the light and sat in my rocker as the kids slowly faded to sleep. I wondered, "What will the season after Covid look like? Will it come all at once? How soon will it get here?"
I watch my Facebook feed for signs of a collective spring. A rebirth after a year of winter. I see the first glimpses.... vaccine selfies, kids going back to school, first vacations. My heart is warmed. Lent is almost over. Easter is almost here.
Today is Passover. Tomorrow is Palm Sunday. The hardest week is still left ahead. There's all the agony of the passion and then, the world is quiet. Easter is like spring. It starts small, confusing... something strange... an empty tomb...a stolen body? Where is my Jesus?
Easter is too big to grasp so we hide in familiar rooms and lock the doors. What does it all mean? Resurrection from the dead? A lifeless body among us. We see him but we don't recognize him. He eats with us and burns our hearts.
There is so much ahead that I do not know, do not recognize. My life after covid completely changed my a year in my caccoon. Easter. Resurrection. Life after death. None of it familiar. The path completely unknown and uncertain ahead and I feel like the squirrel in the story -- will I know spring when it comes?
All I can do is continue down my path, one day at a time, one foot in front of another and trust that a stranger will join me on my own road to Emmaus. His words will make all things clear, his warmth make all things right.
I head into the unknown and my savior walks beside me.
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