The Sun

Easter Sunday

0418.2025

In the quiet of Sunday morning,

a soft light sings of beginning,

and then there’s the scent of wild tulips—

somewhere in the world,

a child finds its prize in an egg,

and this wonder fits their small hand.

I love the human hand—

lifting another from the dust,

offering safety to the damned,

the forgotten,

the afraid.

What is a god?

Perhaps a hush that moves between us all—

a voice in the blood

that whispers:

“love one another—

and mean it.”

If Christ ever walked,

let him be a man who fed the hungry

with bread and time,

who wept without display,

and spoke not to be praised—

but to remind us

we are not alone,

how we are loved

and love.

I do not need a rising of the sun

to know what it is to begin again.

But for those who do—

may this morning

open like a soft gate.

For the children—

may their laughter be real,

their baskets bright,

their eggs warm in their hands,

their fear vanished.

And for the rest of us—

the wanderers, the watchers,

the ones who love in quiet ways—

may the hush of this day

bring a small peace,

and the gentlest permission

to keep going in love’s light.

m.c.f.