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Eight years ago (Eight years? Can it be that long?) I wrote a poem about Resurrection. Pam and I hadn’t been together very long, and everything in life was fresh and new.

The backstory goes like this:  One spring morning Pam had gotten up early, as usual, and was on her way to work, when she discovered our cat Moses cornering a baby rabbit in the carport. She woke me up, and while she held Moses at bay, I rescued the bunny and  sent him on his way. Out of that brief but memorable experience came the poem.

In the years since then, life has changed radically. Our marriage has settled into a lovely routine of togetherness, tranquility, and adventure. We’ve moved to South America–to Cuenca, Ecuador–and this week we’re preparing for another move, this time to the small town of Cotacachi, nestled between two volcanoes two hours north of Quito.

But life hasn’t been all tranquilidad. We’ve had our times of struggle and conflict. Living as an expat in a foreign culture brings its share of challenges and frustrations. And it occurs to me that, wherever we are, whoever we’re with, whatever our life circumstances, we live with the reality of Death and Resurrection. The death of How We Envisioned It, and the resurrection of How Much Better It Can Be. The death of What I Thought I Wanted and the resurrection of Unexpected Gifts of Grace.

And so, on this Easter Sunday morning, I reprise the poem I wrote eight years ago, in gratitude for recent resurrections, for new dreams, for love beyond imagining. And this I pray:  May my eyes always be open to What Might Be, and my heart attuned to Who I Might Become.

EASTER BUNNY

“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you;

don’t go back to sleep.”

Crouched in the darkness

with its back to the predator,

the prey shivers,

waiting

for the final blow

of tooth and claw.

I take it in my hands,

stroke the brown baby fur

between its ears,

whisper a word of comfort,

and feel the panicked heartbeat

thrumming against my lifeline.

How safe it is

cradled between my palms,

it cannot comprehend;

cannot understand

the assurances I murmur,

cannot know

the love I feel.

And so I release it to the woods,

prod its furry backside

and send it hopping

toward its mama,

toward the dawn.

In this moment

at cockcrow,

standing at the verge of the trees

in my pajamas,

I bear witness to the ultimate grace:

resurrection

without a death. 

(Not nearly so dramatic, perhaps,

but easier on the bunny.)

And I wonder:

How many Easter mornings

have dawned without me

because

I was asleep?

© 2010 by Penelope J. Stokes