“I do not know what it is,” the
elderly man commented, “but there always seems to be a different type of walker
in the early morning.” He watched as his two golden labradors fossicked amongst
the fallen leaves, searching for the source of interesting scents. “Do not get
me wrong. They are all nice, but somehow, early in the day, people are more
relaxed and willing to spend time chatting. I come out at this time every day,
not always taking the same path, walking the dogs and talking to the people I
meet.” Adjusting his glasses, he continued speaking. “Every morning is
beautiful. Every day is a good day. When I was 50, I thought life was good. In
my 60s, life was better. In my 70s, life was better still. Now, in my 80s,
every day is a gift and every morning, beautiful and to be treasured. I have cancer
and do not know if my prognosis is accurate. I am receiving chemotherapy, but
that is alright. The nurses at the hospital are great. I am happy to go there
and, in between my bouts of chemo, I walk the dogs and enjoy my life, however
much or however little of it still remains to me.”
Alongside the lake, a fisherman
pulled in his heavy line, the rod bending and moving from side to side as the
fish tried to escape. With infinite care, he drew the orange-bellied fish into
the net. It was big. No doubt the man’s wife could have prepared at least one
and perhaps two meals. She would not have a chance to attempt such an exercise:
her husband bent down to remove the hook and release his catch back into the
lake. He resumed his seat and picked up his preferred breakfast of a bowl of
cornflakes.
Further along the same lake, a
magnificent male swan swam gracefully and silently towards the water’s edge.
Watchful and protective of his mate on her nest, he prepared for the
unnecessary likelihood of defending her and her precious eggs. For her part,
she sneezed and buried her head underneath her wings. She was safe and knew it.
Soon, the male relaxed and resumed his guard duty, a responsibility which would
remain his until the eggs hatched and the cygnets were themselves ready for
independence.
The elderly man was right. There
is something special about an early morning woodland walk.
The Jesuit poet, Gerard Manley
Hopkins, asked the question, “What is spring?” He answered himself. It is
“growth in everything”. There is something wonderful and almost magical about a
country walk where young lambs skip beside their staid mothers and heavily
pregnant mares wait in anticipation of giving birth. In this part of the world,
it is hard to think of a better symbol of Easter and its new life than the
glorious beauty of our countryside. Even in the city, amidst the busy streets
and bustle of traffic, wayside trees stand with swelling buds and leafy mantle.
“What is spring? Growth in everything.” Primroses are making way for bluebells.
Yellow dandelions have replaced the white snowdrops, daffodils and colourful
crocuses. In the early morning sunlight, as one dog walker remarked, “We are
truly blessed with unique beauty and an unmatched countryside.”
Yet, in spite of the sunshine,
there is also darkness. Out of sight in the Central African Republic,
Christians and Muslims try to eliminate each other, usually with great
brutality. An Archbishop and his Iman friend tour the country in an effort to
show both sides that they could live in harmony and understanding. Nigeria has
once again witnessed bloodshed as Muslim extremists detonated a bomb in a busy
bus station in Abuja, the country’s capital. Syria somehow continues to exist
in the middle of appalling violence, its victims disproportionally innocent
children. A Pakistani court recently dismissed the case of a nine-month-old,
who was charged with throwing stones and attempting to murder a policeman. At
the time of writing, Ukraine is frighteningly close to becoming the border of a
major war between Russia and the West. Search and Rescue ships and planes still
scour the waters of the Indian Ocean as they look for the vanished Malaysia
airlines plane. Close to the shores of South Korea, divers desperately search a
capsized boat, hoping against hope that they might find a child hanging on to
life in an air pocket.
Sunshine and shadow. On Palm
Sunday, Pope Francis celebrated Mass and toured the vast crowds assembled in St
Peter’s Square whilst carrying a wooden cross made for him by Italian prison
inmates. His action echoed his visit to the town of Lampedusa after a boat,
laden with illegal migrants, sank, drowning most of its passengers. There, his
cross was fashioned from pieces of wood salvaged from a shipwreck. On both
occasions the joy and celebration of those present at the Mass was touched by
sadness. On the one hand, however culpable the prison inmate might have been,
incarceration divided a family. On the other, unrealised hopes of a new life
caused a family to pay perhaps everything it owned to unscrupulous traffickers
with little care for the seaworthiness of the boat to carry them from North
Africa to Lampedusa.
Good Friday led to Easter Sunday.
Without one, the other could not have happened. Sunshine and shadow, light and
darkness. Some of us have the freedom and the time to appreciate and to cherish
the world around us. Others wonder when their pain and suffering will end.
Nothing matches the agony of a parent when a child’s life is endangered. It is
all easy to see Mary at the foot of the cross and, somehow, to think that, for
her, everything was different; everything would be put right because of the
resurrection. For the rest of her life, she would relive the sights and sounds
of her son’s suffering and death. The joy of Easter Sunday would never
obliterate the memory of preparing Jesus for his burial. Good Friday changed
Mary. We can glibly say that it was an experience which taught her compassion
and understanding. That is true. However, for all time, she is a mother who
suffered, who shed tears and who found herself in a place where, left to
herself, she would willingly have escaped. It is unjust to her to explain her
journey in terms of salvation history and to ignore the reality of her
motherhood. Yes, Good Friday prepared for Easter Sunday, but Easter Sunday
somehow included Good Friday.
The people of the Central African
Republic, Nigeria, Syria and Ukraine, the relatives of the plane crash,
shipwreck and the prison bars will never be the same. Please God, their Good
Friday will become an Easter Sunday.
