Written by John Sherrill, a contemporary author.
It’s Monday, the day after Easter. Yesterday, when the children and grandchildren left, my wife, Tib, and I went through the usual post-holiday letdown. We coped with it as we always do–cleaning up. I collected left-behind jellybeans before they could be trod into the rug, picked up a ball of colored foil where someone had missed a wastebasket, found a half-eaten chocolate rabbit under one of the kids’ beds. Tib gathered the wicker baskets and carried them up to the attic, then got out the vacuum cleaner and attacked the escaped Easter grass. How did the shiny green strands get so far from the bedrooms where we had unpacked the baskets? I plucked a couple from the back of the sofa in the living room, found one on my sweater sleeve, even extracted one from the butter dish. But Tib and I didn’t give up; we searched and swept until eventually we had picked up the very last one. And then last night, as I started upstairs to bed, a green sliver winked at me from the riser. It’s been the same this morning. I’ve found three strands already in places where I’d already looked. I was getting exasperated with the stuff until I thought, Wait! Aren’t these the little tokens I used all last week to assure me that–whatever the grief or frustration or disappointment–Easter will come? Maybe I should change my attitude about these elusive strips of grass mysteriously popping up at unexpected times and places. Last week, I chose these spots as forecasts of the Easter message. Suppose I let the grass choose for me now. Suppose in the future, each time I catch sight of a piece of it, I let it remind me that Easter is not a day. It’s a promise.
And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies because of his Spirit who lives in you. [Romans 8:11]
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