“Easter Sunday, 2020”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

The Resurrection.

It is the focal point of Christian theology and of this special day on the calendar. But here today, in the moment, there was no formal service. No family meal to share. No celebration to mark the awakening of dormant life that had waited under the shroud of winter. Instead, there was only the ‘now.’ Socially distanced, quarantined, masked, gloved, sanitized, separated and shielded from the invisible menace.

The Coronavirus.

For this writer, the day had simply become a moment to pause in reflection. Which I did while walking my dog. A Black Labrador Retriever, aged 13 years. Birds were loud in announcing the season as we toured our yard. They stayed busy chirping and cackling from trees that were nearly bursting with the promise of new growth.

In my head, a familiar hymn from childhood resounded:

“Low in the grave he lay

Jesus my savior

Waiting the coming day

Jesus, my Lord!”

Our backyard tree stretched across a western corner of the lot. Brimming with buds. I remembered it first appearing under our propane tank, a dozen years ago. An errant, ‘weed tree’ lifting its scrawny trunk toward the sky. A lonely stalk, very out-of-place and odd. I was counseled to simply cut it down, and be free of guilt. But this yearning plant touched my heart. I wondered about transferring it to a more friendly location. To a patch of ground in our side yard. My wife agreed. So we dug carefully, lifting the tiny timber from its grotto under the cylinder.

That summer was memorably hot and dry. We watered the tree regularly, to rescue it from shock. My wife feared that it would not survive. Its leaves drooped with fatigue. I felt sad, as if we were watching a child in a hospital ward. But the garden-hose-therapy continued. After standing, half-bent, until fall, winter covered it with a graceful overcoat of white. We decided moving the tree had been a bad idea. One that bowed us with regret.

Spring flipped our mood, however. The orphan wildwood was reborn! New limbs sprouted in every direction. This miracle once again revived the music in my head, with seasonal joy:

“Up from the grave he arose

With a mighty triumph o’er his foes

He arose a victor from the dark domain

And he lives forever with his saints to reign

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah, Christ arose!”

The stray sapling grew ferociously. Seemingly inspired to occupy the full measure of its new corner of our yard. White blossoms adorned its breadth and height. During mowing chores, I carefully cut around it to avoid disturbing limbs that reached out for room. I sometimes stood in the grass with a beverage, while admiring its humble grace. An unwanted outcast of sorts. Now able to serve as an anchor on the property. Noble and proud.

Long separated from the dark spot under our tank.

Each year found the tree blooming and blossoming and rising higher toward the regal blue. Eventually, I had to prune it back from touching the neighbor’s bathroom window. A feat that would have been unimaginable only a short while before.

Every spring that followed loosed the same melody in my ears:

“Vainly they watch his bed

Jesus, my savior

Vainly they seal the dead

Jesus, my Lord

Death cannot keep his prey

Jesus, my savior

He tore the bars away,

Jesus, my Lord.”

Even with COVID-19 on a rampage, this Easter felt joyous and pure, like any other. Yet I pondered the day feeling more solemnity. More consideration for the cycle of mortal beings. Of we who walk the earth with rituals and traditions to accompany our journey.

My roam around this rectangle of green had now lasted 18 seasons. With sober eyes, I realized that our tree would likely outlive both of us, in time. My Black Lab, now an old fellow, with frosted whiskers and wrinkled paws. And myself, bent and stumbling with two canes. Trudging in the footsteps of my late father.

This arbor fetched from the propane bay, given new purpose as a fixture of the residence park – would survive us both. Perhaps to convey our story forward, to others who inherit this lot and the neighborhood.

For them, perhaps, the spring of yonder days will brighten with skies untouched by a pandemic like the one we face. With the familiar hymn still signaling the seasonal rebirth of nature:

“Up from the grave he arose

With a mighty triumph o’er his foes

He arose a victor from the dark domain

And he lives forever with his saints to reign

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah, Christ arose!”

I let my Black Lab off his leash, to wander. Though this Easter had come amid worry and fear, it arrived nevertheless. Just as sweet, just as hopeful. Just as marvelous and miraculous.

Amen.

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‘Low in the Grave He Lay’ - words & music by Robert Lowry