Sometimes it is all too much.
I don’t know how to say it all
when I so rarely say it all.
I practise all the reminders,
look for ways to rehearse the experience
of discovering you and being discovered.
I’ve played Jesus in the Easter play,
tried to find new ways to discover the story,
to give it a new skin.
I’ve been to sunrise services,
tore off chunks of freshly baked bread,
drank the communion wine.
I’ve visited sanctuaries covered in black cloth,
joined processions of dancing pilgrims,
hidden the eggs before going scavenging.
I’ve stayed up all night praying,
meditated on the meaning of sacrifice,
death to self, and the new birth.
I have retreated into silence far too often,
unsure of my ability to parse religion and faith,
how to balance certainties and questions.
I can feel the tiredness in my body,
the sluggishness of my thoughts,
and how my vision of you has become a fog.
But somehow, when we sing the songs,
there, unbidden, is a great joy:
He is risen, he is risen, he is risen.
