We walked out of the house this morning,
and my New England-acclimated daughter said,
"This reminds me of summer!"
The sun was shining, the snow banks were receding (a little),
and a phoebe was calling out her name.
We got in the van and drove south.
In a town founded in 1623, we found a cemetery.
(Which was a 'dormitory' to the early church -- I like that.)
The cemetery was in full sunlight, and on a hill.
We parked the car and got out to walk.
Yes, we like to bring our children to graveyards to play.
The children ran, but I walked.
Away from the others, I walked in silence,
looking at the Polish and Italian and Irish surnames on the stones,
and at the words Rest In Peace,
and enjoying the feel of the sun warming my back.
I looked at the rhododendron buds awaiting resurrection,
and up at the bare branches of a deciduous tree with small buds formed,
and at the snow-covered ground hiding all those dead bones.
I thought about my own grave.
Elisa came and walked with me, and pointed at evergreen trees
someone had planted over a tombstone.
"Don't plant those over my grave," I said,
"and don't put fake flowers by my grave, either."
I told her I wanted them to plant bulbs over my grave.
"Every year they will die back,
but every spring they will bloom,
and you can remember that there is a resurrection."
"That is what I was planning to do!" she said.
And I could not help but look out over all those stones
and think about the men and women who have lived and died
and will live again.
I will join them: uncurling myself in the warmth of the Son,
and stretching out the stiffness of the long winter,
and no longer unadorned and bare of glory.