It is Easter, 2020, and Virginia is in self-quarantine. At least we say we are. Here in our quiet mountain home I sat on the front porch this morning with a cup of tea and watched my dog, Buddy, chase the crows away from the bird feeders. Out on the country road only one pickup truck sped by, the driver tempting fate in a place where deer frequently jump out in front of cars. I wonder where he is going. The churches are not holding services, even here in this bastion of churchianity. The predominant denomination hereabouts is United Methodist, and the bishop for our area (I have no idea who that may be) has wisely complied with the Governor’s wishes and suspended services until we figure out how to stop COVID-19 from making people sick. It could be the fellow in the pickup has the same need I do: to get out of the house and enjoy the beauty that abounds in this part of the state. I hope that’s it. I hope he’s driving up to the top of the ridge to park his truck, get out and sit alone overlooking the valley below, and thank God for the natural world, for the resurrection brought by spring, and the Resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth.
I am giving thanks from my old wooden bench on the porch, watching goldfinches and redwing blackbirds eating from the seeds scattered on our gravel drive. Buddy gives thanks for the crows who try to steal the seed. They give him a job to do, an essential thing for a working dog. I say a brief prayer, asking for stronger faith, asking for a way to reconcile my need for evidence with my need for hope, and trying my best to remember the rush of gratitude I felt when I first believed.
Happy Easter. He is risen.
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