If Willow Trees Could Talk...

Outside my door

I am greeted

with new life.

Spring is here

and even if it snows

and the wind has a bite,

Spring is here. 

The daffodils, crocus and hyacinth are triumphant 

and resplendent in all their finery.

They don't mind the autumn and winter debris 

for this is what kept them warm through the winter. 

I need to clean it out

(or just call it mulch).

I continued my trek around the farm,

the breeze pushing, pulling me towards the old willow tree,

the one that has stood many long years by the corncrib.

It did not fare the winter so well.

I think if trees could talk, 

this one would. 

(This tree was to be my someday "Party Tree",

where hobbits, elves, dwarves and men could gather.)

Today though, this tree made my thoughts go back to a Jerusalem hillside.

To another kind of tree. 

While some of it is now firewood,

and parts are dead, 

I don't just see despair and heartache.

I see LIFE. 

All around and in the midst of fallen branches, 

I see new life. 

I reflect.

I remember. 

Good Friday was a day of death. 

A day that many must have thought that surely all hope had come crashing down, 

leaving nothing in it's wake

but dead branches and decay.

I wonder if the day after was even worse. 

Final.

At least in their minds. 

But in all of that,

there was life.

Life that had been literally poured out

 for each and every one of us. 

And after three days

that must have felt like the three

 longest,

darkest, 

loneliest

most eternal days ever,

the morning came that the tomb was visited

and it was empty. 

The cross which signified suffering and death 

of the most unimaginable kind

became a symbol of hope too.

A way to reflect.

To remember. 

For in death, cold and biting,

life came forth. 

Thank You Jesus for what you sacrificed for me, yes for me, on that cross. 

Let me not forget those hard parts,

 Good Friday and the horrible days that followed,

but let me also remember 

the empty grave

and the morning that life sprang forth. 

Hallelujah!

Love,

Dianne