Of Easter: A Contemplation in three parts

Part 3: Easter Sunday


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Pull over.

“What, here?”

Sure. Why not?

“There’s nothing here.”

It’s the last dark stretch before the expressway. We won’t get another chance.

I draw the car to the side of the road and park. The engine cuts off. All is still in the pure darkness of 1 AM. I open the car door, my bare feet dangling, pressing solitary footsteps into the dust. They are feet that know–no man escapes the dirt on which he treads. The thick summer air mutes the call of crickets echoing in the wind. I climb on top of the hood, resting my head against the windshield.

“They don’t have this many stars in Tampa.”

Sure they do. You just can’t see them anymore.

I stare into the swirling multitudes, like toys strewn about by a toddler, more and more tossed and shaken and strewn into the sky where they shine the smiles of the little children who have loved them. Little stars. And I unseen by all those thousand eyes, the watchmen of the heavens; one tiny speck beside a forest of humanity, creation wrapped in endless time, and who am I? Just some girl laying on the hood of a beat up old truck on the side of Florida State Road 19.

“Does it even matter?” I ask. The infinite possibilities of the future wage war with my insignificance.

Oh, beautiful daughter of mine! He sighs. The warmth of his breath surrounds me, and for a moment, I am a child wrapped in the warm blanket of his creation. Across the heavens streaks a solitary star–we two alone in the night watching paths set out before time. And I know in wordless ways: however the road winds up ahead, he lives in the blind side of every curve, one great light guiding me ever homeward.

“Is it time?”


“What’s next?” I ask. No words uttered, just the patient breath of lovers known and carried within.

I climb back into the car. My eyes scan the piles of boxes–all I possess on this blue planet squashed into my little tin can car. The engine rumbles on again. I roll the windows down, peaking my head out for one last look at the star-flooded skies.

What is it you are looking for?

“Isn’t this heaven? Isn’t this peace?”

This is but a moment.

“Then what is left?”

Only to go, and to see.

We sputter forward, my little boxes of existence, my God, and I. The great unknown looms ahead, behind a past sealed and locked, that chapter signed in blood. Soon the city lights will flood the highway as we cross the boundary between this peaceful rest and living. Soon, soon we will see buildings and street lamps and every imprint of humanity on a once perfect creation.

“I will call this road ‘resurrection’,” I whisper to the unbroken heavens. Up above, a little star winks.


Isaiah 43:18 – 20