Easter Morning

1 Apr

The perfect Easter morning.  Gray, overcast skies.
No hint of glorious sun.  A fitting metaphor for
the world these days.  Rather grim.

And yet in church parking lots, on grassy hillsides,
in public parks people gather to sing about an
event they remember only in story.  An ancient
story that unfolded in a very different culture,
in a very different world.

But now, in spite of gray skies and the absence of
radiant sunbeams, they smile, greet each other
with more than a casual “Hello”.  They listen
again to the retelling of the ancient story as if
for the first time.

The last song sung, the final work spoken, they
pick up their lawn chairs and go home.  The sky
is still that lifeless, steel gray color, overcast and
unremarkable.  Not a single sunbeam is in sight
as the last car leaves the lot.  Only the birds are
left to sing.

Bystanders ask “why?”  The point in performing
this annual parking lot ritual?

It’s the story.  The story’s the thing.  If the gray,
overcast sky is a metaphor for the assault of
gloom in the world, this story is the chronicle
of new life, new vision.  It excites a feeling lost
in the overcast.  A love story with a bad ending
and a great hope.

And so they drove home from the parking lot
having remembered the story, shared it again,
and drawn from it a sense of hope about life…
even under gray, overcast skies.

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