Struggle for normalcy.
Grasp for ordinary.
Such are the days now.
The unspoken words on all lips,
“When will the storm break?”
When will we crawl above ground
and survey the damage?
It’s Easter.
Most think of bunnies and searching for eggs.
I think of the empty tomb and the hope that is suppose to bring.
I always supposed that on that day, magic happened,
and the world was saved on that day.
Most likely not.
His followers still had to hide.
Fear ruled while the words, “He has risen,” slowly spread.
The hope seen in the story
2,000 years in the making.
Each day a new bit of hope slips into my daily reading.
A test, a drug, a statistic.
Fragment of hope.
I don’t remember when it started, but
years, maybe decades ago on Easter Sunday,
an old friend always emails or texts me the words, “He has risen.”
I always give the hopeful reply, “He has risen indeed.”
Some years I send the words first.
Two old Christians sharing the ancient infinite story in just seven words.
When will there be seven words for day 32?
Andrew's View of the Week 