It’s Easter Sunday, and he is risen.
I don’t realise that I hold a strong faith, until this rolls around again, and I clear my diary to come to Church on a Friday, and then twice on Sunday – including the early service in the garden, where the birds make more noise than the children and we share communion on dew soaked grass.
He is risen.
I don’t pretend there aren’t other paths and I would fight for your right to follow whichever one you want. For me, knowing that Jesus suffered physical and mental torture means that he walks with me in my tinylife.
He is risen.
Acknowledging this cycle: birth, death and everything in-between, in a Springtide when the world regenerates itself, reminds me to keep going – one foot in front of the other.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia!
