I was perfectly prepared for how bad Good Friday would be, but Easter Sunday? My dear, that was quite beyond me. How could I have understood? You might as well have tried to describe sight to the blind, music to the deaf, belief to the cynical. My reality was limited to the evidence of things seen, the substance of things feared.
The empty tomb should have been proof of hope; I saw it only as cause for despair.
So when I saw the gardener-for who else could he be?-I wept and wailed and pleaded. I wanted to wallow in my grief; that was one thing I thought no one could take from me. I held on to it like a treasure.
Then I heard my name. How puzzling: How could the gardener have known me? That's when I turned. And I realized who had spoken to me, and who The Gardener was, and the whole, fake world was gone, the curtain lifted, the night shattered forever as the sun rose Easter morning. He had risen.
Funny how all you need is to be called by your right name and turn. You have to turn, you know. So you can really see. Only then does everything fall into place.
Surely you've felt that way when you've been in love, wanting only to serve the other, asking for nothing else, knowing it to be the purest happiness. This was like that, only forever.
More tea, dear? No? Perhaps something stronger? I'd join you in a sherry, but I don't need it. I've been intoxicated with life and love ever since that moment when it hit me. The gardener! My dear, I had no idea.
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