Christ was risen. The tomb was empty. All the world rejoiced (or hated, or denied—such compelled every soul to choose a side); but that was day ago, and Monday was new.
What now?
What to make and live of it all?
Did she still believe, or was such just a day; a reason to gather and be grateful and live in love? Was it miracle that truly made day so wonderful and special—every year, and this one even more? Or was it spring, the world and season, and not the miracle that was and Christians still proclaimed?
She mused, walking trail through city park that was her wild until retreat again to refuge and country home’s await.
What now?
Did she believe, or did she doubt? Was to doubt to deny? Could one doubt and still believe? Did she overthink it all? Could one overthink it all?
What now?
Monday after, and leaves of the trees began to spread, small formed and open from buds, colors of their growth in leaf veins and edges as they formed into their full.
From sight of the leaves in blood vesseled hues, she looked to stroller and child within and contemplated how, in spring before, child grew the same—and still remained—forming into full of body and spirit she would be.
What now?
Why the sudden confrontation of Faith? Was it age? Was it child? Was it true consideration and contemplation on the miracle?
Which side did she choose? Such compelled and commanded that all must choose and declare a side—though no one had asked, no one commanded, least of all the Christian faithful; and yet she felt compelled.
She doubted, reticent, even in her hope and desire to believe. Who would not wish that such was true?
Only an evil that wished to control and kill, forever, man.
She decided to believe, in spite and against her doubt she had lived with all her life.
She looked to child in stroller before, asleep, bent arms wide and as cross in lay—miracle and blessing and Gift of God. How could one look on her and not believe in the goodness and love of God?
She determined to believe, in spite and against her doubt, for her life was no longer only and all her own. She owed it to another, one whom she loved more true and pure than ever she could have ever imagined, a love beyond knowing and whole of her spirit.
She looked on her child in innocence and sleep, in lie with outstretched arms and knew that it must be true. She determined to believe for spirit and soul and salvation of her child whom she loved more and beyond anyone she’d known.
How could it not be true, and so she believed.
Decided, determined, she walked in the morning light—her child asleep, in innocence and peace—beneath boughs of the trees in canopy above; leaves opening, expanding, growing in upward seek and reach for the risen son.
Decided and determined, she opened same: warmth of the wonder awake in soul.