Our parish church was lovely – as it is every Easter Sunday. It was packed, too! I love being displaced on Easter Sunday. I love the multitude of faces never before seen. It is a day of new life on so many levels – an opportunity for the seeds of relationship to grow. So, we’re sitting in the way back on the “uni-pew” – the long bench that runs the length of the nave. The brass quartet, the choir, the sound of every voice singing, the incense – it was great! In the midst of the sounds and smells of Easter Sunday she came – my Mom – for just a split-second.
When I say “she came,” I don’t mean a vision. Although words fail me now, I want to express the reality of these visits. I’ve written about them before – moments of clarity in which the boundary between here and there blurs a bit and I sense her presence – that’s all. But that moment of recognition is precious to me. I’ve come to trust it and treasure the gift.
There is almost always a trigger of some kind – a memory, a song, a place that stirs my soul. Yesterday, it was the flowers. The Hyacinths. These funny springtime beauties singular in appearance and odor. They grew plentiful in my grandfather’s garden and were a certain sign that Lent would be over soon. When I was very little, the name of the flower cracked me up. My Mother’s name was Cynthia. “Hi ya, Cynth!”
They have such a distinct fragrance, too. twenty years later when my Mom was dying, me and my Dad w to visit her on Easter Sunday. We brought her a Hyacinth and placed it by her bed. She had been moved from a top-notch New York hospital over the river to a nursing home in New Jersey. It was just a matter of months then. Even though she was in a coma, her eyes would open. It was so hard to stop hoping.
It was a very good skilled-care environment and the nurses were kind and gentle. That meant a lot to me. Still, it was a nursing home with all the attendant sights and smells. We didn’t stay long that afternoon. It was very hard to see my Dad with her. We both were pretty wrecked. But suddenly the smell of the Easter flowers filled her room. A place for dying became a garden. I guess I have never forgotten that Easter among all my Easters. And God, in God’s great mercy, has put something of the power of the resurrection in those Hyacinths. They have become – for me – icons of the empty tomb. Those funny looking flowers have become a sign of something I know in my gut – He lives so she lives, too. And, for just a sweet, fleeting moment yesterday, I felt visited.
Alleluia, Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!
God is Always More 