He is risen.
You are not, yet.
The Tomb is empty; your grave is not.
But I have faith that it will be.
And so will Gramma's.
And so many others.
I honestly don't remember a lot about Easter last year. I remember sitting in the front room, the room that holds many mementos and even more memories, watching the sunrise while snow fell. But not much beyond that.
At least for the moment.
I planted flowers in your garden yesterday (and I'm super sore today). It was hard work, trying to rip out the stubborn grass, dig holes deep enough. But I also kept thinking of you and everything you endured and figured I could handle it.
I planted a Gold Medal rose bush for Gramma, and a Henri V clematis for you. Yellow roses were her favorite, and clematis stands for ingenuity and mischief; two characteristics that seem to fit you. The flowers are white symbolizing purity, faith, new beginnings and love. Now I just hope they do well.
There aren't pansies in there because they won't withstand the summer heat, but there will be marigolds, alyssum, and forget-me-nots around your stone. There are sweet peas and snapdragons. And hopefully petunias. A variety of colors and scents; a beautiful garden to remind us of your beautiful soul.
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| Your last Easter morning here, 2023. You were so happy to be at church! |
This sun is rising. Time for sunrise in Alpine is said to be 6:41 am, but it doesn't seem to take into account how close we are to the very high mountains on the east. And so it seems to take a long time to see the sun. Those mountains comfort me, protect me, help me feel safe, but they also hold back the sun.
The sun will come up; it is coming up. It's just taking time.
And so will this.
Time for my soul to find peace, and time for grief to wash over me, again, and again, and again.
I will not stop missing you until I hold you again, and yet I also find joy and comfort in this life.
Happy Easter, Aaron. Happy Easter, Mama.
He is Risen, and someday you both will rise as well.
Love,
Mama
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