must be the gardener, silently bowed in wonder, kissing each blossom
She thought he was the gardener, or so one of the stories goes.
As one who dwelled among us as the living, breathing, dying, decaying flesh of all creation, it would make sense, at least to me, that the first beloveds he greeted as he emerged from the dark womb of Earth might have been the tender blossoms of the garden unfurling their fresh new birth toward the rising sun.
Smiling in wonder at the tender green buds, having gone through a resurrection himself, perhaps he knew them more deeply, knew their mysteries, their wisdom, just as they knew his.
Looking up from the precious buds at the human sounds now surrounding him, i wonder if he laughed to himself seeing his beloveds look to the place where he had emerged and wonder where he was. These little newborn flowers were in on the gardener’s joke.
With that same tenderness and sense of wonder, the kind of tenderness and wonder only a gardener may have, he called Mary by name, inviting her into the unfolding of this story, awakening within her the wisdom of resurrection.
May the wisdom of resurrection blossom within your being this day. Easter blessings.
