It is Easter morning.

The sun is rising over the lake, and high in a tree, a single bird is chirping. Lately, more and more, there seems to be a competition between my bladder and lower back as to who will get me out of bed the earliest. This was one of those mornings. And so, I have been awake for an hour, drinking coffee in a dark, silent, house.

Our birds flew back into the nest for the weekend. There will be Easter baskets to find when they wake up. They are under the mistaken impression that I do this for them. The baskets remind me that once, there were small humans living with us who giggled and bickered and left crumbs and candy wrappers everywhere like two chipmunks. Those were good days. These are good days, too. If we’re lucky, some day there will be grandchipmunks who visit and look for Easter baskets, just like their parents did. I’m crossing my fingers on this.

This morning, we will pay a visit to the Methodists and sing the hymn about Jesus rising. And then, later there will be ham, cheesy potatoes, and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting here at home. After that, our chipmunks will go back to adulting, and life will return to whatever passes for normal for all of us.  The snow pile by the driveway will continue to melt, and the baskets will be stored away for another year.

And so, whoever you are, and whatever you believe about the things you believe in, I hope that this April day and the blessed re-birth that is springtime gives you more joy than pain. More laughter than tears. More togetherness, than loneliness. More singing, than silence. A chipmunk, or two, to warm your heart.

Happy Easter.





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