“I need a green hill to rest my eyes upon.” These words came from my grandpa who lived his life in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.
Easter weekend we drove from Michigan to Middle Tennessee and watched the stages of spring unfold before our eyes. We left a mostly brown Michigan with hints of spring; through Ohio we saw Bradford Pears bloom, and Kentucky gave us unfolded leaves and the beginnings of green hillsides. Driving south this time of year is like watching time lapse photography and gives us a great glimpse into the hopes of springtime in the North, and anticipation of what we would find in the South.
My favorite part of this progressive processional of green was entering Tennessee on I-65 and resting my eyes against the green hillsides already exploded in color.
Thursday afternoon, we continued our journey of healing with sunshine on our backs, friends’ hands on our shoulders and Southern cooking in our bellies. As the community observed Maundy Thursday with communion and silence, Roger and I looked around the sanctuary and saw something much deeper than familiar faces. We experienced the power of love.
We listened to a sermon of Christ’s journey and how it relates to our own journeys of growth. I heard the minister’s words and knew deep inside he was only speaking to me as I looked out at people separated from me by miles, but joined by heart. As we exited into the warm evening air in silence, someone tugged on my elbow and whispered four simple words in my ear – “I loved your boy.” I felt her sentiment all around me as we walked across the church yard and took our familiar perch on the bench in the columbarium garden near where Roger gingerly laid his ashes six months ago.
I dreaded Good Friday for some time before its occurrence. Six months to the day prior, our son took his place in Heaven’s community. Seven readings of the Good Friday service never held so much meaning to me, as we observed the death of Mary’s young son – I could now relate to her pain so much more personally. Again, we exited the service silently in observance of the solemn occasion, and we felt the magnetic draw to Nicholas’ burial site. We don’t have the opportunity to visit often, so when we do, we spend as much time in the garden as possible. Even in the dark evening, my eyes rested on the hills in the background and reflected on the day.
As much as I dreaded Friday, it marked itself as the introduction to a joyful weekend. I awoke in the home of a dear friend, met with another for coffee, shopped in one of my favorite stores and spent the day wearing a comfortable skirt and flip flops rather than shoes, socks and a coat. My eyes gazed on the green hills and I felt joy.
Holy Saturday, I lunched with women dear to my heart as an Easter egg hunt took place all around what I call “Nick’s garden” at the church. I am told children ran and scampered and I know his heavenly heart overflowed with joy.
On Easter morning, the pastor’s sermon centered on the joy of the resurrection and that we should consider it fitting to celebrate at the place one’s physical remains are left behind. Before the services, when I took a seat alone in his garden, a little girl asked me to break off a rose from a nearby bush so she could decorate the cross. I broke off two – one for her to take to the cross and one for me to drop over the spot where we remember Nicholas.
It is ironic that we would associate a tiny spot with remembering Nicholas, because moments later, I entered the celebration of Easter Worship, and felt surrounded with his presence. The choir started and I heard him sing along almost as clearly as last Easter when he sang with the same choir. I looked around the sanctuary and my skin tingled with feeling his presence and celebrating Christ’s resurrection.
We bade good bye for now to the green hills, as we drove home to Michigan leaving spring’s progression mile-by-mile in pouring rain. I held hope as we approached our house and saw forsythia blooming and green peeking out from the floor of the woods.
Spring brings hope for new life as green pushes through the thick brown bark. This weekend, as I took the opportunity to rest my mind, soul, and eyes on the green hills, I bring back hope in this journey of healing.
Easter is so good, and I did not even get a chocolate bunny.
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