I’m grateful that the Easter season lasts for 50 days.
I didn’t go to church on Easter—I wouldn’t have been able to take it all in. (Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel like going this year. Too big a disconnect: the agonizingly slow growth of rooted faith on one hand, and the fast-blooming cheerfulness of an Easter Sunday church service on the other.)
Some of the bulbs I planted are flowering. It’s a scrappy, messy affair; unpredictable, earthy, and with mixed results. But maybe that’s how faith is anyway.