Rain fell light from gray-cast sky whose cover slowly thinned in hint of violet from sky-blue through.
Indoors, they looked on its fall, unseen in fine through sky but showing in dimpled strikings cement walks pave of street before their home.
Indoors, they thought of their garden and the growth that would come of the rain; softening of the earth, deepening of roots, higher rise of stems and the opening and expanding of new-leaf growth on the greens.
Lawn shone in richness of green that always seemed more when unbleached by the sun—darker, deeper.
Sometimes life needs shadows and diminished light to fully show its true and tone of color.
She thought of that in the shade, musing on morning view and rainfall’s way. Some hues need shade, others light—to be full and truly seen—and to live in balance of both, see and allow true of every hue, is beauty of a balanced life.
She looked on her own skin then, sun on her arms that shone as a rose from first spring days lived full in the season sun. In evening gold and low, full sun, it had been a deeper red and tone. In cloudcast of rainy morning, it meekened.
But with the meeken of rose, covered fair shone pure; lightness cast—lighter than sky—in lavender undertone; hints of her freckles dappled and there but almost hidden in open sight until tan and tone of sun-changed skin that, again, soon would be.
But she enjoyed her fairness too, tones and sights of her seasons’ change; and she knew that he did too.
She felt him then, broken from muse contemplation on color tones and need of light, and shadow, in spectrum of its way.
She felt his smile before she saw, curl of lips and affinity in eyes; his own medium and means and shine of light that colored he and she and the world they shared; and in his eyes, her rose of sun was richened.
Heat rose into her cheeks, and light of smile reciprocated as does between loving souls.
“What are you thinking she asked?” curious to smile’s source and the direction of his mind.
Holy Saturday, sky and world remained in rain and shadow.
Tomorrow, son would rise.
“Would you like to be at the Farm for Easter?” he asked. “I like the ideal of being with you, should rain-sky clear, at evening shade and watch—in wonder and awe and sadness—day’s die of light and hope; and to be with you in Easter morning in resurrection of its Light.
There is a small country church, Saint Catherine’s, that seems more a century-old schoolhouse than church. We’d be the youngest there by thirty years. We could go. We could listen and receive and maybe you’ll feel something you never have before because it’s not ostentatious, and it’s not judging or preaching—it’s simple praise and awe and wonder for the miracle of everything made possible in resurrection of the Son; just as we saw and shared in morning’s dawn.
And even if you doubt, we’ll remember the Light and the way it rose, wonder and awe and effect on soul we felt in the Easter dawn.
It is only an idea…but it makes me happy—to think of us there—and I thought maybe you’d like to go: to rest, to be, slow down, make another garden that gives us reason to return and see the way its growth and fruit and all the world are changed each interval in our time away; and how—returning—we feel ourselves restored.
Would you like to go?” he asked. “The daffodils will soon be gone. I’d like to see what new blooms are in beginning; to live the spring and Easter’s day, and plant seeds and reasons for return.
Would you like to go?” he asked again. “I want to plant the seeds and be in home with you.”
Light of his eyes, heart of his words, she desired as he did.
