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May 11, 2020 | Reflections

Image:Barbara Ryther

Easter
Kathryn Yingst

I remember when my daughter was younger, she had asked what Easter was about. I gave her the historical context; I shared our Christian belief in the Resurrection. But I also tried to convey a deeper sense of the symbolism. “It’s about new life,” I told her. “…about love, and hope.”

To me, Easter is like buds pushing their way into the world on dormant limbs. It’s like holding a single determined flicker of fire on a moonless night. It is the whisper of the Universe when the sorrow of one more headline feels enough to crush me, saying, “And yet…”

And yet, today I awoke to spring daylight, feeling rekindled.

And yet, I held my lover’s hand. I spoke to a cherished friend. I sipped a cup of lavender tea.

And yet, on my evening walk, the cry of the loon echoed between the blue grey shores of the harbor, painting me into the watercolor of sunset.

And yet, I heard my child’s gentle breath as she slept tucked beneath my arm.

The hard parts of life sometimes soften; sometimes they are unwilling.

Easter is breath to my fainting heart. It is the Universe reminding us of everyday miracles–resurrecting me from the tomb of despair with the astonishing hope-promise: “And yet…”

I have learned to listen for her whisper. Her voice is breezy soft like a lily field; so intensely beautiful that I find myself leaning towards it. This, I’ve discovered, is exactly the needed leverage for rolling away stones.

– March 27, 2016

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