Compared to the suffering of Christ on the first Good Friday, my personal sadness this day seems small and insignificant. I should be joyful, not melancholy, with the completion of Mom’s house sale this afternoon.
But when I walked this morning and thought about the decline in my mother’s health from Alzheimer’s, I was sad. She has always been an independent woman, determined, highly intelligent and resourceful. She deserved many more years in her house, I thought, more rewards for the sacrifices she made for Dad, my siblings, and me. The finality of the house sale made her illness real, immediate, depressing.
Though the day was sunny and hinted at spring, I grew gloomier and gloomier. But a spot of color close to the ground caught my eye when I passed my neigbor’s yard. The crocuses, encouraged by the sun and undaunted by the melting snow, bloomed cheerfully. Nearby, red peony shoots reached boldly toward the promise of spring and laughed at April’s chilly fingers.
The plants know the sun waits above the cold, black ground. I know the empty tomb waits in the shadow of the cross. Can I believe that goodness waits beyond Mom’s declining health?
The breeze touched the crocus blossoms. “Yes,” they nodded and whispered in the wind. “You can.”
