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Reflection: |
Being a Midwesterner, at
this time of year I long for
green pastures. By early
March I yearn for the growth
that spring will bring and
the swaying grasses of
summer. I have had enough
crisp, clean winter air,
enough glorious snowfalls
and sparkling ice, enough
struggling with sleet and
wind, enough wet thawing and
gray, ashy grit. "Come
loaf with me on the grass,"
Walt Whitman invites me.
When a child asks the poet,
"What is the grass?" he
answers, " . . . I guess it
is the handkerchief of the
Lord, a scented gift and
remembrance."
Today as I walk the paths
and sidewalks, I remember
the green pastures of the
Lord. Trudging through the
dark puddles of a spring
thaw is like trudging
through the dark,
introspective days of Lent,
head down, attention focused
on not falling. Yet each
day's journey brings me
nearer to spring, to the day
of resurrection, to the
promise of new growth and
hope.
And so in these gritty,
somber days of Lent, I
remember the grass and
anticipate once again lying
down in green pastures. |