It is not easy to convey a sense of wonder, let alone resurrection wonder, to another. It’s the very nature of wonder to catch us off guard, to circumvent expectations and assumptions. Wonder can’t be packaged, and it can’t be worked up. It requires some sense of being there and some sense of engagement.
― Eugene H. Peterson

A single forsythia bush is blooming along the path at the Nature Center where I walk each morning. Canadian geese have paired up and nest in the inlet of the pond along the trail. At dawn, the trees, just beginning to bud, are alive with birds. After months of walking in the dark and silence, all this seems a miracle. Of course, I’ve anticipated the arrival of spring. I’ve known that it will come, and that the earth will green again. Still, as pastor, theologian, and poet Eugene H. Peterson claims, it’s the very nature of wonder to catch us off guard. And each morning when the sun blooms above the hills–all orchid and rose–I find myself thinking: how could I begin to put this into words? It seems that I should try. And, as a poet, I do. But this kind of wonder requires some sense of being there, some sense of engagement.

Years ago, I bought a bag of tulip bulbs from one of my children’s school fundraisers. Eager, but naive, I planted them in a bed just outside our backdoor, imagining the riot of color that would bloom in spring. When my tulips didn’t bloom, I asked friends if they’d ever had this happen. One friend asked me to recount how I’d planted them. What do you mean? I said as I felt a growing sense of shame. I just planted them. Tenderly, she suggested that I may have planted the bulbs upside down. Later, I learned that bulbs can bloom regardless of how they’re planted, but for whatever reason, mine didn’t. Until one morning, I looked out my kitchen window to find that–against all odds–one bulb had broken the earth and stood alone in the flower bed. Days later, there was a glorious pink bud and then a blossom. I recall thinking that this was resurrection wonder. From an empty bed of earth, from seemingly hopeless odds, a tulip broke free. I was sorely amazed.

The earth, by its very nature, grounds us in our mortality. Like the flora and fauna around us, we live and die. And yet, the earth gives us glimpses of immortality, as the death of winter gives way to the abundant life of spring. And this abundance, this victory over death, astounds me. Every time.

In an epitaph for his wife, Joy Davidman, author and theologian C. S. Lewis writes:

Here the whole world (stars, water, air,
And field, and forest, as they were
Reflected in a single mind)
Like cast off clothes was left behind
In ashes, yet with hopes that she,
Re-born from holy poverty,
In lenten lands, hereafter may
Resume them on her Easter Day.

This is resurrection wonder: that we might cast off our clothes, that we might be re-born from holy poverty, that we might have our Easter Days. Wishing you a blessed Easter.

Resurrection

A wood thrush has thrown itself against the window
and sits stunned now on my front porch.
It must have seen a way through 
into the day that was blooming so brightly over the hills.

It must have felt a quickening 
in its small bird bones, a joy flickering
through its small bird wings, building

into a desire so great that it must have flown 
without thought, just given itself to the air,
as birds will. 

And wingless now,
it works to quiet the riot of heart 
threatening to undo it.

What must it take to pull yourself in like this? 
To pull in and down,
to shut out light and flight,

to move deeply into the core
where all-things-bird germinate.

Now, it drops its head.
It’s so still that I think it must be dying.
So, I close the door on a life that’s been
and might be. 

But an hour later, it’s gone.
Not even a feather marks the place where it fell.

And I’m senselessly happy that it’s risen,
finding a way through to the sky and the day
and beyond.

          --Shannon Vesely

And one perfect day can give clues for a more perfect life. ― Anne Morrow Lindbergh

My grandson has been driving since he was a toddler. From the battery-driven plastic car in the photo above to a small 4-wheeler to a full-size riding mower, he’s driven with confidence and joy for years. So, when he burst through the door a few weeks ago on an unusually mild February day–the 4-wheeler idling eagerly in the driveway–I grabbed my jacket even before he could say, “Do you want to go for a ride?”

I’ve been Griffin’s passenger for years. He’s earned my complete trust as he’s navigated the northern edge of the pond which is a veritable minefield of stumps. He’s given me acceptable thrills as we’ve gained speed across the pond dam, gravel flying in our wake. And he’s often narrated our journeys as if he is a naturalist or a historical tour guide, offering such comments as: “This is Indian Ridge, Grandma. See how high up we are? This is where the Indians could see the buffalo below” or “If you look closely in this corner of the pond, you might be able to see the koi. This is where they like to hangout.”

On this spectacular Sunday afternoon, we drove around for almost an hour. At one point, I turned my face to the sun just as Griffin said, “I’ve really missed this.” “Me, too, Griff,” I said. And I struggled to hold back tears, for I’m painfully aware that I’m living on borrowed time. Soon, Griff will pass into adolescence, and such intimate moments with his grandma will be relegated to childhood memories.

Still, as I consent to one more time around the pond, I will myself to be present in this moment on this fine day. I’m grateful, so very grateful for the sun and the speed and this boy. In L. M. Montgomery’s classic novel, Anne of Green Gables, Anne exults:

Isn’t it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren’t born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one.

Yes, this is it exactly. I’m so happy to be alive and to know that, although others may have fine days, they can never have this one. This day is mine–and Griff’s. This day is particularly fine because it is ours alone. Despite–or perhaps because of–this ownership, I can pity those who aren’t born yet for missing it. In truth, a perfect day may evoke both a sense of possession and magnanimity.

American naturalist and “Father of the National Parks, John Muir contends that our finest days must be cherished:

These beautiful days must enrich all my life. They do not exist as mere pictures–maps hung upon the walls of memory to brighten at times when touched by association or will, only to sink again like a landscape in the dark; but they saturate themselves into every part of the body and live always.

To live in the sanctuary of a fine day demands this kind of saturation. For Muir–and for me–such days can’t exist simply as photos or fond memories; rather, they must penetrate us wholly. Living in this sanctuary, then, is a willing immersion into the essence of beauty, love, peace, and joy. It demands that we arm ourselves with these virtues as we move into and out of other days, days which may sink again like a landscape in the dark. This is a sanctuary of submission. Having waded into the beautiful waters, we give ourselves to a life-sustaining baptism. We offer our finest days as the best of who we are, and we’re born again, and again, as we invite them to saturate every part of us.

American writer and aviator Anne Morrow Lindbergh claims that one perfect day can give clues for a more perfect life. Thirty minutes into our 4-wheeler ride, I remember the niggling thought that came to me, first as a whisper and then as a proclamation: be present. Throughout my life, I’ve perfected a look that says: I’m listening. I’m present. And yet I know that this is often a facade, for even as I’m desperate to be present, I often unwittingly project myself into the future. Walking the tightrope of now-and-then, I’m often left unable to recall the names of those to whom I’d just been introduced or to simply savor a moment. Riding with Griffin always offers me clues for a more perfect life: be fully present.

In his speech, “The American Scholar,” Ralph Waldo Emerson writes of his age: This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we know what to do with it. There’s something sentimental about holding a fine day in the scrapbook of your life. If you know what to do with it, however, it can be so much more than a pretty page. But this means that you do what you know you should do. This means you must get down off your high wire and abandon your balancing act.

Truthfully, I’ll continue to struggle with staying present. Such is my lot as a worrier. Too often, I project myself into the future, as if imagining every possible scenario might give me a measure of control over my life. Sadly, this has been my default position: always be one step ahead. At times, this has served me well. More times than not, however, it has prevented me from being present. When Griff drives the 4-wheeler, I’m simply along for the ride. I let time run its course. I let the sun shine as it will. I give myself to the moments when I’m reminded that the notion of “one fine day” is a perspective and a choice. And as I do, the sanctuary of fine days stretches endlessly before me.