An old sap bucket, a patina of rusted green, hangs on the end of wooden beam of the fireplace mantle. Red dogwood branches from Christmas fill the bucket, remembrances of His birth, His Glorious Coming.
And in amongst the dogwood, the Oldest has slipped in branches of pussywillows, from that armful he carried all the walk home from the river. We could have, I suppose, cut branches from a forsythia shrub or from that cherry tree deep in the still of the woods, forcing them to open by placing them in water. But yes, the vivid red of dogwood seems right.
And now, nearing Easter, we’ve hung painted eggs from those red branches and those twigs of spring. Christ hung on a tree because of His passion for broken ones like us and we’ve gathered our own branches and now again read His Story, hanging paintings, symbols of that journey straight to the Tree, and we’ll meditate and we ‘ll remember.
And be transformed, a tree bringing forth new life.
Photo: egg hanging on Easter Tree branches off mantle
