I had to escape my boys the other day. Things had gone sideways and we all needed space and time to come down from terrible heights.
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With little plan I ended up at St. Mary Magdalen Parish. Weeks ago I had read a neighborhood post asking a simple request: Does anyone have magnolia leaves they would be willing to donate for Easter decorations? I DM’d the man who wanted to do something special outside the church that would stand empty on the most important day of the Christian year.
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When he came by, I didn’t expect him to want much contact, but we chatted for a while and he told me of his son recovering from coronavirus in NYC. In his 40s, strong, you wouldn’t expect it, he said. We stood under my magnolia and I couldn’t tell him my story. I couldn’t tell him that that tree had picked Mary and Mary had picked that house before she saw much more than the tree. I couldn’t tell him about how she was strong, in her 40s, and killed by an unexpected virus.
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That tree has bloomed more in the two years since we lost Mary than it did in previous years. Those weeks are coming soon again. I don’t know how many times I’ve been resurrected in these two years, but I know much of me has died away.
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I’m going through another one of those deaths now. It seems the whole world is on the ride this time. Even Spring is dreadfully lacking in color and life. These deaths don’t get much easier, but I’m getting better at valuing them. And like each of my resurrections, I expect a brighter world to emerge.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
