Let him easter in us

Earlier this year I wrote about my enjoyment of a £1 bunch of daffodils. I'm still treating myself to these bunches; still enjoying their glowing, golden simplicity, even as the days become brighter. Now, I can enjoy the sight of them gilded into transparence by the morning sunlight. And I can appreciate, too, the process which unfolds, literally, before me.

Whenever I buy these daffodils they are kept in a dry tray, tightly furled within their ultra-thin, yet ultra-strong sheath. Back home I put them in water, and then the unfurling begins. Wondrously, the sheath begins to split open, rather like a zip, and the tightly packed petals gradually, tentatively stretch and spill out. As the formerly restricted flowers reveal themselves in all their loveliness, their once strong sheaths are revealed as thinner than the thinnest paper. There is something quietly miraculous about leaving a room for a couple of hours, and coming back to notice the opening up of the first bud, or going to bed and waking up to a vaseful of joyfully resplendent gold.

Let him easter in us... Gerald Manley Hopkins' words came to me this morning, as I marvelled at the Easter Sunday sun washing over these flowers, and the trees beyond my window filled with blossom and greenness. And yes, let him easter in us, because Easter is the season of our blossoming. Now is the season of our opening and unfurling, our widening, our flowering and our growth. Yes, let him easter in us, and know that in this grace of transformation we can cast aside each defensive carapace, discovering how flimsy and insubstantial these shells really are before the strength and overwhelming, supremely joyful reality of Christ's death-defeating love. 

Let him easter in us, as he easters in our blossoms and blooms... and may this eastering, filled with hope and new life, last into our eternity. 

Blessings and joy to you all!