My hands full of bottles.  Ointments for your dead body.  Perfumes, spices, all intended to cover up the stench of the death of hope.

I see the stone, cracked and broken.  I drop my burden, the ointments meant for your body now anointing the ground.  My feet take me where my mind can’t yet comprehend: an empty tomb.

In that emptiness, I become filled.  You appear before me.  I don’t just mistake you for a gardener;  I recognize you as a gardener.  The gardener tending the blossoms of hope and love, the tender shoots of peace and justice in the world.  The great gardener of Eden.

And you gently touch my face.  I fall at your feet while you whisper the words I have been so desperate to hear:

don’t be afraid.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s