nearly blasphemous.

Standard

Pastor: He has Risen.
Congregation: He Has Risen, indeed.

I know that, and every line of the Easter service,
-Can tell you every parable, quote you all the verse,
sing you all the lines from the hymns.
I spent Easter Sundays as a child trying to count the lilies on the altar,
but always lost count somewhere after a hundred.

This is a Sunday that celebrates miracles.
Which I don’t believe in anymore.
rarely.
nearly never.

Except when the last thing I want to do is host –
or clean
or bake a ham.
In fact bake at all,
since every thing about a lemon meringue pie makes me sad.
But I do those things anyway,
begrudgingly.
And  then my house if full-
of family by birth or by circumstance.
Full of children’s laughter and hopped-up on chocolate smiles

And that’s when I catch the miracle-
between the buds of the hyacinths of the centerpiece.
The little one.
About how there is room in my heart for love,
and joy.
And faith.

She has risen.
She has risen, indeed.

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