The Day After

We walked into a foggy sunrise this morning. The moon watched the sun coming up through the trees. A cardinal’s call hammered down from the old apple tree, surrounded by clouds of others, yelling “I’m here!” We plodded, tired to the bone. Even Sam was tired, sniffing here and there half heartedly.

It had been a glorious week, Hosannas, the cross, Easter’s triumph. With the music and drama, iconic shadows and light, every moment too full to breathe, too real to go through the motions. It is the core of who and what we are. It demanded everything we could give. And now, empty, hollowed out by the fires of sacrifice, we’re here, gliding through the fog.

There is a clarity and goodness in this fatigue. I’ve run races and felt like this at the finish line. Woven with the aches and need for rest are memories that bring small smiles. Snatches of power and song run in harmony with the sunrise through the mist.

I wonder if they felt like this then. I wonder if they smiled a bit thinking of small memories that we now call scripture. Holy moments are consecrated, set aside. They weave into our daily lives threads of glory. They go with us as we wander on our way.