We stood at the edge of my Father’s grave this morning. The hill wound up and around and I was confused. The place appeared brilliantly different from the burial day in January when we stood by the open pit, clothing pierced and whipped by snow, frozen with shards of fine ice and wailing wind. I remembered the absurdity of wearing ballet slippers in the snow; as if I could challenge all nature.
Somewhere in my mind I told myself defiantly, ‘I will wear delicate slippers at the edge of the grave and I will not be cold’.
And I breathed and time was quickly gone and tomorrow will be Easter, the holiest day of the year. It is 75 degrees at the edge of the grave and I kick lightly at the dirt…with my ballet slippers.
‘In the twinkling of an eye we shall be changed’. The tumbled rocks need to be raked over and fresh grass planted and the tombstone is waiting to be placed. We came and we saw and we went on because there are things to prepare. Easter dinner will soon be waiting and there are rum cakes and mustard honey ham and spiced potatoes and plenty of warm family fellowship.
Because I believe this grave at the top of the hill is so very temporary, I kick with confidence and I shall not wear these ballet slippers again this Easter eve…
690 Saint Paul 