Yesterday morning as we stepped out of Easter Mass into glorious sunshine, my father noted that the weather all weekend had perfectly matched the Triduum.
We arrived to the cabin on Good Friday afternoon amidst grey clouds and light rain:
Holy Saturday gradually transformed from morning showers to afternoon sun peeking through the clouds:
And Easter Sunday morning was clear as a bell, bright with sun, warm as spring all day long:
Today, as I wake with a head full of thoughts of the Triduum, of moving liturgies and moments of prayer, of a weekend rich with good company and good food, I’m reminded of the ways the world outside often matches our inside journey – if we only open our eyes to see.
I think back to an Easter Monday six years ago, when F asked me to marry him. It had been another beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and I had the day off (a lovely perk of working for a French company). So after a happy, relaxing day of a long run, a short nap, a spring cleaning of my apartment, I spent the first twenty minutes of F’s arrival to my place after work babbling to him about what a great day I’d had, how beautiful the weather had been. He practically had to interrupt me to make his sly transition to propose before the ring burned a hole in his pocket.
And as the day transformed into one we would never forget, I remember (amidst my total joy and crazy adrenaline) that the weather had matched my mood all day long – an unexpected explosion of warm and sunshine into that perfect March day.
Today, the morning is bright and fresh with dew, ready to greet the unfolding of the Easter season. The grass is greener than when we left three days ago, and the garden is full of blue jays pecking at the tilled soil. Though today brings a return to work and the quietness of just me and S at home all day, it feels like a day rich with possibility.
And I wonder if it is simply because I took the time to notice before launching into the day’s work. How often do I fail to see what God has quietly, lovingly placed before me? Or is the clarity only apparent in retrospect? Perhaps only when we rejoice in the Easter sunshine do we realize how dark the tomb really was.
I don’t know about you, but I need Easter this year. I need sunshine and daffodils. I need hope and renewed joy. I need fresh air and feasting on the first yields of the garden.
It’s been a long, hard winter. That tomb was dark and deep. I am ready for Easter’s spring.