May 25th–Eastertide

These last few weeks on Cape Ann have been foggy, cool and rainy. The sun appears in fits and starts, occasionally shining silver through the clouds. And today, finally the clouds broke, and we woke to a blue and gold sunrise. Still, some large storm clouds hover in the distance, and there will be thunder showers if it warms up. The world underneath is green and blooming; the nesting robin in the backyard birch tree seems glad for the sun, as much as we are.

We’ve been very concerned about the persistent tornadoes in the Mid-west, joining with others around the country in prayer and help for the those who are survivors. And I am always glad for the long arm of the church; though we can’t be there in the flesh, we can send aid and help to them through other Lutheran agencies.

This last Sunday, May 22, we honored our Sunday School teachers, and their students with prayer gardens, planters of flowers full of color to take home and remember the beautiful work of planting God’s word. We gave the children seeds to plant in their gardens, hoping that they, too, would remember the seeds of God’s word coming to flower and bear fruit in them. It was a helpful task for me, finding the flowers, consdering the long life of prayer, the long service of the teachers, the liveliness of the our children, and remembering again that growth can’t be rushed, that it’s often slow and gentle, and the green doesn’t show for a long time.

I’ve been watching the apple tree in our front garden this year, every day as it blossoms. Blossoming is a slow process. It’s a blessing to stand quietly, and watch them emerge and bloom. If you stand underneath the boughs, you can hear the entire tree buzzing, alive with bees. The blossoms have started to fall now, and drift over the car, the driveway, the neighbors’ lawn, onto the sidewalk. There’s a small trail of apple blossoms leading down our street right into the cove, and then to the sea.

Easter season calls me back again and again to affirmation, to God’s yes, to the mystery of his persistent love, in tornado seasons, in apple blossom seasons. My prayers, as others also pray, go out with hope for consolation for those who have lost so much. I hope that somewhere, sometime soon, today, perhaps, God’s comfort will come as soft and gentle as a falling petal.

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