confessional

easterlily

Yesterday was Easter.
Like lilies we arched
our necks and sent
fragrance heavenward. We were full
as full can be after baskets and feasts; the feeds
filled up with family photos and we liked
and loved and shared. It was a season
of champagne. Monday came and I
greeted it with risen
indeeds, and my deeds came
not from the blush of a sunrise
empty grave but from the whitewash

maw. Risen One, Easter
has been happening for two thousand some years and so has
Monday, and Tuesday, and the rest of the week.
Would that single Sundays could change
forever

our solitary weeks, rituals our train rides,
feasts our hungry bellies. You are not a God
of “one-and-dones” but a lifeline. The fullness
we know
at times
is a reminder that You are indeed
filling, now, and again, and
again. If I was refreshed
once and for all, would I need
You each day? I wake

and receive, and sin, and receive, and mourn,
and receive, and rejoice, and receive. I would despair
if I couldn’t receive, but it’s funny how I wish
I didn’t have to. I am in need, I confess it. I live in a

body of death in a
place of death in a
time of death, and You are Life
Eternal. Remind me, my Easter, through my filthiest
moments, through my rainiest
hours, through my loneliest
days, that Easter is every
day, that Your once-and-for-all is a
presence, not a pact I need to
fulfill. How shall we then

live? By confession: grace
an evident
sacrament, a long-
ing and fulfillment
entwines.

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