The Day Before

Amy and me - my very first bottle calf heifer!

Amy's waiting for her fifth calf ...

 It's Saturday morning. I am on 10 o'clock heifer check. I pull on long johns, extra layers, flannel shirt, silk scarf. An old felt hat, a gift from my sister many years ago. Grab the blanket from the stair rail in the porch: "It looks like rain," the Good Rancher had said as he went to bring in his horses.

I drive out, through the horse pasture, through the little gate into what he calls the Storm Field. It's a haven for calvy heifers and pet cows on days of inclement weather, such as this one.

It's mizzling and extremely windy. Even the crocuses are shuttered against the onslaught.

I circle the perimeter slowly, trying not to disturb these heavily pregnant mums.

Each is settled in her chosen spot.

They are all quiet.

At rest.

Waiting.

Tomorrow's the official day that new life will start to be seen, the GR says. It's the official heifer calving launch.

But it's the day before. All is quiet in this garden. All are at rest.

I back the side-by-side into an unobtrusive spot and let my mind drift back some 2,000 years ago to that "day before" where there was little to no activity on the streets of Jerusalem in honour of the Sabbath. 

Rest day.

Waiting.

Tomorrow - little do they know - will be different from any other day anyone has ever known. A massive stone will be rolled from a brand new tomb. The broken body, placed in it so tenderly by friends just days before, will not be found in the cave. 

Angels will attest.

The ladies will come. Peter and John will come. Friends walking to Emmaus in bewilderment and sorrow will speak to and break bread with Him. 

Death will have been defeated.

Nothing will ever be the same.

But that's tomorrow.

Today the sleet spits in my face.

The thunder rumbles.

We rest.

And we wait.

Leaving the Nest

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Leave the field that the eagles call home and turn left onto the 855. Go up to the tower and turn left. Drive 20 kms on dusty gravel and turn left onto the 36. Head north for a few kms, past the burnout; and on your right you will see, about a quarter mile off the highway, a little white house with a red roof.

Only about 12 miles from the Good Rancher's place, as the eagle flies.

As you turn off the 36 onto the gravel something wonderful happens. A rainbow appears. Wait, a DOUBLE RAINBOW, arching gracefully over the house.

This house, this nest, that launched eight fledglings in their time:

Gordon

Mary

Allan

Clark

Margaret

Bruce

Mabel

Marilyn

This particular evening, the symbol of promise hovers over this place as my sister brings her son to see it, to see the nest that nurtured his family four generations ago.

The place where Ruth and Tiff brought their premature, sickly baby son after he was released from the Hanna hospital. Where Ruth prayed, "God, if you save my baby, I will give him back to you to serve you."

The place where she wept, 26 years later, after she had waved goodbye to him from the steps of their home and watched the car all the way up the dusty quarter mile until it vanished from her sight. Not once did she ask him not to go.

Her son Allan served God in India for over 40 years. Each time he returned to Canada for a brief period of home assignment, the first place he would go would be home.

He returned one time unexpectedly, shortly before she died. He came to tell her he loved her, to tell her thank you, Mom.

He had made his life on the other side of the world.

But he never forgot his nest.

It's Raining, It's Pouring!

I spent Wednesday away from the ranch; when I left, the sky was overcast but there was not so much as a spatter of raindrops.

I checked in by phone periodically. Any rain?

No. 

What about now?

No. 

And then at 11:34 I received this picture from DJ, along with the words "Finally getting some rain!"

As my friend and I went about our tasks in Calgary we were almost blown over by some of the wind gusts. We heard of the tornado warnings and thought about the Good Rancher, who was making his way back from Lethbridge.

Finally, at about 8 pm, I was home. The first thing I did was check the rain gauge:

Half an inch! 

I was so excited. The air smelled clean. As I hauled groceries into the house the three cats clawed at the door, wanting to get into the brisk outdoors. Olivia decided that discretion was the better part of valour in this unknown weather pattern. 

Jack and Charlie, however, swooped out and hurtled around the corner, to be brought up short by the overflowing rainwater tank - I must confess that I was brought up short by it too. How does a mere half an inch fill a bone-dry water trough like that?!

When the excitement subsided, we all went back indoors. The GR joined us shortly thereafter; as he started to eat his belated dinner, he heard the first pattering on the roof.  Food was forgotten as he jumped up and peered out of the window.

That half inch earlier was merely a teaser. The rain had arrived in earnest now!

All through that evening and into the night it tapped out its persistent percussion on the tin roof drum above our heads.

I was getting ready to settle The Nine in for the night, and I didn't see the GR at one of his regular evening dozing spots in the living room. But as I went down the hall the light showed me a glimpse of that man lying relaxed for the first time in many months.

"I'm just listening to the beautiful music," he murmured.

I thought about the time I took him to a performance of Handel's Messiah by the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra and Chorus. I never sensed in him the depth of awe and joy I experience when I hear the magnificent old masterpiece. 

But this night, I finally got it. 

This was the GR's Hallelujah Chorus.

Finally the household occupants were all tucked in for the night. I filled the electric kettle and flicked on the switch. As the water started to shift and heat in preparation for my hot water bottle, I was propelled toward the front door. Opening it, I stepped onto the top step and felt the immediate impact of water and wind.

And in it I heard the still, small voice, a whisper, a caress in my ear:

This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. (Matthew 5:45, the Message) 

I stayed there for long moments trying to take it all in - the wind weaving through the rain, the scorched grass tentatively stretching its blades upward again, the certain knowledge that God loves us all.

And finally, I could breathe. 

Listen to the rain with me! 

I went inside to enjoy the deepest sleep I have had in a long time.

But the next morning I was awakened by a shout: "Check out the rain gauge!"

(This includes the half inch from the previous day's afternoon showers.) 

The wonder of it all!

A Cloud the Size of a Man's Hand

 It's past time to get to bed. 

Now I lay me down to sleep - I pray the Lord my soul to keep...

This evening I was watering the scant flowers I had bothered to plant in the Round-up Corral, some of them so scorched by another brutally hot day that as the spray from the watering can touched their petals they spat at me like water hitting a hot frying pan.

As I lugged watering can after watering can around this beautiful, desolate place, I couldn't stop thinking about Elijah. Elijah was the prophet of the Lord who took on the most evil of the kings of Israel to date, Ahab: the Old Testament book of 1 Kings chapter 16, verse 33 actually says, "... Ahab did more to provoke the Lord God of Israel to anger than all the Kings of Israel who were before him." In desperation for his nation to turn back to God, Elijah had declared that there would be no rain until he gave the word.

And now it had been three years.

All of that backstory to get to the part I was pondering, the part where God gave the word to Elijah that it was going to rain.

After some other pretty dramatic moments, recorded in chapter 18, Elijah sent his servant to study the sky and see if there was any cloud in it.

No. 

Check again. 

No. 

Check again. 

No. 

Again. 

No. 

On the seventh trip outside, the assistant reported that he saw a small cloud the size of a man's hand in the sky.

That was enough for Elijah! He sent his servant to tell the King to hasten home or he would be caught in the deluge that was about to hit.

And it was so. 

Dear Lord, tonight we have clouds in the sky over the Round-up Corral - angry, roiling clouds reluctant to release their contents, ready to punch anyone who dares challenge their authority.

Clouds bigger than a man's hand. 

The wind is throwing small objects up into the air in a blustering show of false bravado. 

The miniature pond in Jane's Nook has a waterfall that is clattering onto the rocks below, and the beautiful old stained glass window above it trembles slightly between its sturdy chain supports. The Good Rancher does his best to secure it. 

We have had 2/10ths of an inch so far this year. We have been hauling water for a month already. The livestock is hot and thirsty, looking for reprieve from this relentless heat. 

The forecast holds out hope for tomorrow; but it's been teasing us like a shiny object jerked repeatedly out of our grasp so many times in the past 30 days.

The GR waits and so I must go. 

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord that He will make the clouds to shed a tear ...

Amen.

Because I Choose To

It's getting close to midnight on this coldest of Valentine's days. The Good Rancher is out defrosting a frozen up waterer that his horses use. This morning he was up before the sun - all the waterers were frozen, and he had to do extra feeding today. Then came bedding - in weather like this, everyone gets straw to snuggle down into, even the grand old matriarchs of the herd. 

It has been like this all week. The weather was supposed to break a couple of days ago. Now the weather forecasters are talking maybe tomorrow, just like they have said since Thursday.

I went to church by myself and Pastor Walt and Roxie sang my song, accompanied by Sharalynn on the piano, her fingers weaving some of the sweetest harmonies I have ever heard:

After both services I headed home, fortified with a box of goodies from Roxie. The sky was bright blue, and you would be forgiven for thinking that the outside *must* have warmed up. 

Yup: -29 with a wind chill of -41. 

He didn't get in until just before 4 o'clock, his face burnt by the wind. I had asked him a couple of days earlier if we could go for brunch. 

Sorry. 

But it's our anniversary! 

The cows don't know it's our anniversary. 

Ahhhh...

I was eating leftovers from last night's quiet celebratory steak dinner. He had coffee and salad. Then he got up and handed me a bag from Lawlor's Jewelers in Stettler. It was the same bag I had picked up for him last week when I had to run in, the bag that had a stern warning on it, DO NOT OPEN BEFORE VALENTINE'S. 

Inside was a heart cradling an icy diamond and floating precariously on the most delicate chain.

He had taken the time, in the middle of the night, to go online and choose this for me. 

He had remembered our anniversary this year. 

It didn't feel so precarious this year.

A couple of months ago, when the familiar terror of not-being-good-enough threatened to swallow me, when the why-is-the-garbage-not-taken-out riff started to play in my head, when the why-can-he-not-stay-awake-for-a-conversation refrain started to repeat itself, God impressed upon my heart that I could control none of that. All I could control was me. 

A friend of mine was asked how he had kept his marriage together through three-plus decades shaped by illness and turmoil. 

"Because every morning, I choose to love," was his quiet response. 

And so I asked God to make me more sensitive to the Good Rancher, to seek out ways I could make his life easier. To choose, each day, to love. 

One week later, everything I had been fulminating about seemed to be resolving. 

Conversation ✔️

Inadequacy ✔️

Even garbage! ✔️

We were laughing together. He was starting my truck before he left for chores. We began drinking tea together in the evening as we watched the news. 

And it dawned on me that for the past seven years, when I have been so broken, so ragged, the Good Rancher has also been choosing all this time - in the midst of all his other responsibilities - to love. To love me. 

I recognised it when the little white gold heart, burnished through fiery trials, settled sideways into the hollow at the base of my throat like it had found its home. 

It's 12:17 midnight and he just came in. The water is boiling and I make two mugs of tea. "It was frozen EIGHT FEET DOWN, but the dogs and I finally got it thawed! 🎶Praise God from whom all BLESS-ings FLOWWWWWWW🎵!!" 

He settles into his recliner and sips his tea and eats a heart cookie from Roxie's box of goodies. It was a full anniversary meal in that box. Ah, well. The lasagna and French bread will keep for tomorrow. 

"This time seven years ago you were just finishing up helping your tea house kids do the dishes after the wedding reception," he recalls. 

"You should have bolted right then while you had the chance!" I retort. 

He grins. 

He turns on the TV and finds the news. He will be dozing before the second story. 

Today I broke a tooth munching popcorn on the way back from church, and I found a full box of contact lenses while looking for something else at home. You lose some, you win some. 

" Forty-nine years in dog years!" I whisper to Musket, Phoebe Snow, Earl Grey, Carly Simon and Gunpowder. 

It was a wonderful anniversary. 

Cookies from Roxie, mugs from Erin
Heart box from the GR

Angels In The Room

Somehow, he knew.

I was awakened extremely early this morning to the Good Rancher's shoulders shaking as he wept, almost in his sleep. On his Samsung pad were the hushed, joyful sounds of the song "Angels in the Room".

And he was praying for Ron. 

He has been there. In just a few days it will be eight years since he lost his wife of 25 years, his partner, his other half.

And so, prior to the breaking of the dawn, he was praying for his friend Ron.

This morning we received the message, through Ron, from their daughter Sandy that we were anticipating, the message we were praying for, the message we were dreading:

"Late last night, with my Dad, my brothers and I around her bedside; Mom went home to Jesus. 

We watched my mom suffer for a long time, she showed us everyday that:

Pain + Thankfulness, 

Suffering + Joy, 

Grief + Hope; with Jesus, these things coexist together. We wept and we laughed and then we all said goodbye. This is the journey we will walk until we see her face again. 🌹"

Now we who are left mourn. Now we rejoice.

Oh Ron. We glory with you and we weep with you. I think I told you this before, but a wise old pastor told my Dad at my Mum's funeral, "She is with God. And God is with us. So she's not very far away..."

But what a chasm is that infinitesimal distance today! 

Oh, Sweet Jane. 

Knowing Alice

We did not go to Brooks this afternoon. 

Two days before Mother's Day, Alice's three boys tenderly laid her earthly remains to rest.

She had lived a long life, and the three she loved the most were here, together, to honour that love.

Saying goodbye is never easy; but in the Age of Corona it is even harder. 

For the last few weeks of her life she was allowed no visitors, she who loved people and enjoyed nothing more than being with those she loved.

But on what turned out to be her last day we were permitted to go see her and those who were able, went.

The Good Rancher and I were so privileged to be with her into the night, keeping vigil over her, listening to her regular breathing, her occasional stirring.

As I sat and watched a son's love for his mother, I yearned once again to have really known Alice. 

She was already deep into the mists of dementia when I met her. I was never able to ask her what he was like as a baby, a tiny child, a teenager. How she felt when he went away to college, when he married his beautiful Debbie, when they moved north ... 

What it was like to be a wife and mother under very hard conditions - almost a pioneer woman ... 

To find out how her faith burned bright throughout, and how she instilled that faith into her youngest son ... 

To pick her brain on how to be a good wife to a rancher. How to be a good wife to the Good Rancher. 

And then I recollected the third time he took me to see his mom. It was kind of a sleepy day for her, but we had just become engaged and she was the one he wanted to tell. 

"Mom? I have some news."

She was sitting in her wheelchair directly in front of me, knee to knee, holding my hands and playing with my rings. She didn't look up. 

"I asked her to marry me and she said yes! Mom, we're getting married!" 

She continued to fiddle with my fingers. 

With a burst of anguish he leaned over her and gently grasped her forearm. "Oh Mom, I wish I knew if you understood me ..."

Suddenly she sat up straight, looked at him, looked at me. She took my hand and pushed it over to his on her arm. "Shouldn't you be playing with him now?" she asked, and giggled. 

She understood. 

And that would be the one clear sentence she ever spoke to me. 

We babbled together a lot in subsequent visits — I am quite a babbler, and in those days she was quite a babbler and somehow I think we connected. I like to think our spirits forged an understanding. 

The GR and I married on Valentine's Day; and on February 15th we drove to Brooks, to her home, carrying a layer of the wedding cake and some of the flowers, and wearing our wedding attire. 

When the wonderful caregivers at Sunrise heard what was going on, they put a pretty blouse on Alice and a swipe of lipstick and did her hair, threading it through with my wedding tiara. Then they took pictures of the three of us - which to my deep sorrow, I cannot find - and escorted us down to the dining hall. Everyone was given a slice of cake, and I played the piano while Sam, the cheerful, kindly caregiver on duty, had a "wedding dance" with anyone who wanted a wheelchair twirl around the floor! 

Wedding cake topper

Alice sat near me at the piano and kept time, smiling, the tiara fetchingly askew by now. And she loved the cake the GR fed her! 

She grew more and more silent as the years went by. I had my own quiet, blank years to contend with too; we would visit her as often as we could, and I would invariably say to her, sometimes with tears streaming down my face: "Tell me what to do. I wish you could tell me what to do..." Often she would grow still, cradling my hand in hers. On her more animated days she would do her best to tell me something I could do. She would hold my hand, look directly into my eyes with her smiling blue ones, and talk for a few minutes; she would invariably end with a chuckle. 

And though my mind couldn't comprehend, our hearts must have spoken to one another because I would leave feeling understood and consoled. I knew there was hope. 

There were two other "lasts," though of course we didn't know it at the time:

The first was her 95th birthday. I made a ground beef dish with mashed potatoes that she could easily eat; the GR's brother Max brought her favourite ice cream cake. We all sat in the gazebo in the courtyard and it was a beautiful evening. Just before she had to go to bed, we took a group picture or two. This one is my favourite — in this moment she is the sun around whom we all revolve :

The second is the last visit the GR and I had with her before lock-down. We went on a Saturday evening and everyone on the first floor was restless. Staff members were harried and residents were unnerved. 

Everyone except Alice. She smiled at both the GR and me and held our hands quietly as we talked with her. After about 20 minutes I could no longer bear the distress of one of the ladies who used to be able to sing with me, so I went to the piano.

I played for 2 1/4 hours. Music, as always, has far greater power than we anticipate. It can weave its way surefooted through tangled minds and anchor tumultuous brains. That night there was a new resident whose wife told me had been a musician. He had been immobile, silent, at his table; when he heard some of the tunes he used to play, he began unfurling from the pod of his wheelchair. He held her hand and with his other hand he started tapping his leg in time. Another lady's mom was the resident and the daughter asked me for some well-loved old hymns. Everyone enjoyed their evening snack and, when the time came, was able to depart the dining room at peace. 

As the group dwindled, the GR brought Alice to the piano. She sat right next to me and kept the beat. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was mouthing words as I sang to her. She smiled at me the whole time. 

"We don't know how long exactly, but I would say 24 to 48 hours," the charge nurse told us shortly after midnight as May 2 turned into May 3. "But if you have anything you want to say to her, I would say it tonight ..."

And so the youngest son of Alice stood by his mother's bed. He told her he loved her. He reminisced about their road trips for hockey. He told her that even when times were tough, she could always make them better. He thanked her for being a great mom. And he prayed that Jesus would look after his Mom and take her to be with Himself. 

I said to her what my Dad would have said: "I won't say good bye, Alice, because this is not goodbye. I will say 'Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning.' " Then I sang her the song our parents sang to us at bedtime:

Goodnight, our God is watching o'er you
Goodnight, His mercies go before you
Goodnight, and we'll be praying for you
So goodnight, may God bless you. 

We kissed her softly on her forehead and we crept out of her room. 

As we sat under an overcast sky, shivering in a wide semicircle around the grave of her husband where her ashes would soon also be buried, as we followed along to Alan Jackson and George Jones singing some of her favourite hymns on iTunes ... 

As her eldest son and her sole granddaughter gave the eulogy, and as we listened to the pastor who knew her so well talk about the verse that hung on her kitchen wall - and that because of this promise she never lost hope and she was always content - I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else than here for this occasion. Her last gift to her family was to bring them close together in the most peaceful setting, free from the distraction of the crowd that surely would have attended her funeral under normal circumstances. 

The family drew together. They murmured the words of the songs. They listened. They prayed along with the pastor.

And then, as the last words slipped into the atmosphere the sun blazed away the clouds. Sandwiches, all individually wrapped by the local hotel, were produced. Sweets were proferred, and hot coffee took off the slight remaining chill. 

And the people Alice loved most in the world talked. Not just the perfunctory noises normally heard at the reception following a funeral, where family members rarely even get to see each other much; but old stories, profound insights, loving gestures in place of hugs in this day of social distancing. Ties that had been all but unravelled started to be knit together again. She had ensured that the circle was, for this day, unbroken. 

Alice gave me a special gift. She died on her 62nd wedding anniversary - which also happened to be my birthday. She gave me one last link in our short but strong chain: May 3 was when I entered the world and when she left it. What a privilege to know that each year we will have that little moment of connection, this wordless celebration.

We got home that night and rushed out to feed the bottle babies - something she would have loved to do back in her day. The GR took a picture of me feeding Blind Bart; I still have on the strand of pearls I wore to the funeral. 

Somehow, looking at the picture on her funeral card, I think she would have understood. 

I am so privileged to have been a daughter-in-law of Alice. 

Abide With Me

The sky was troubled tonight. It was shooting red SOS flares on both the east and the west of the house. The winds kept shifting. There was no sound of birds. We had a period of mixed snow-sleet-rain, which stung the baby calves' little faces.

The Good Rancher is out doing whatever GRs have to do at 10 at night to ensure the cattle are cared for. My wont is to spend this solitary evening hour imagining all the accidents that could befall him. 

Even the five dogs are restive tonight. 

It feels pretty lonely all of a sudden. The enormity of the pain of our stricken world is bearing down on me mightily.

Yesterday we received the shocking news that our friend Cyril had had a heart attack and had died. Not Covid 19. Not hit by a bus. 

Heart attack. 

Try though I might, I cannot batten down all the hatches; none of us can. 

This is what his wife, Lois, wrote on Facebook:

"It is with broken hearts that we share that Cyril, my loving husband, a devoted father and awesome Grandpa had a heart attack and passed into eternity this morning and is now with His Lord & Saviour Jesus Christ.  Words cannot express the grief we are experiencing right now but God continues to pour out His grace on us.  'We are confident yes, well pleased rather to be absent from the body and to be present with the Lord' 2 Corinthians 5:8.  Cyril could not get through a song or passage of Scripture that spoke of seeing Jesus face to face without weeping. He isn't weeping any more.... 'And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes, there shall be no more death, nor sorrow nor crying.'  Revelation 21:4"
And it is into this anguished evening that You speak reassurance to me; You anchor my thoughts through the words of the old hymn, as sung in all its plaintive victory by the King's College Choir, Cambridge - Abide with Me:

You will ALWAYS abide with me.

Corona

This week. News reports eager to update us incessantly on new cases, rising death tolls, lost jobs, empty grocery shelves, restrictions on travel, restrictions on livelihoods, restrictions on freedoms. 

There are varying schools of thought presented, of course, as to the efficacy of treatment plans, the necessity of preventive measures, the degree of separation required, from quarantine to self isolation to social distancing.

So I am trying to do my part, from remaining largely at home to washing hands till they are raw to helping out where I can. 

This week. Very similar to last week, except that this week started with Palm Sunday and ended yesterday, Resurrection Sunday.

This is how I had envisioned Passion Week, as it is known, unfolding:

On Palm Sunday the Church at Endiang was due to have a service and the songs, story and teaching would reflect the triumphal yet humble entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, mounted on a young donkey.

(Credit: Brian Jekel)

Resurrection Sunday was all planned too: Allan and Angie were going to lead a special Easter song service, Susanne would have told a story, Pastor Allan would have reminded us that this is what the entire Christian faith hangs on - the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ, providing the way for us all to be forgiven of our sins and to have a personal relationship with God our heavenly father.

We had even distributed posters to be hung, and a few of the invitation cards had gone out:

And then, Corona. 

About ten days ago, the most beautiful calf was born. His mother, a large, placid Belted Galloway cow, released her baby to the world almost reluctantly. 

He is white, except for two sort of jet black circles of hair, one around his neck and the other around his hips.

I named him Corona. 

I remember the first time I had ever heard the word Corona. Mum called me outside: "Come quickly! We are in an eclipse! Look at the sun's corona! "

The sun looked like it was blotted out; the only way I could tell its form was that it was outlined with a shimmering halo, making it magical, fearful to a child.

"Why is it so dark? Is the sun dead? Will it be like that forever?" I asked my mother anxiously.

"Oh no - keep watching; the moon is blocking the light of the sun!" she replied cheerily; and of course, she was right. The axis of my world righted itself before too long and the dark unsettledness lifted. "As long as you can see the corona, you know the sun is still there," she reassured me as we walked back into the house.

The moon - who has no light source of its own apart from the sun - was blocking the sun? And the sun let it?!

I loved the word Corona from then on. It signified beauty, mystery, humility, royalty, something to be treasured and stored in the box of memories I keep tucked away in my heart. It was a promise that the sun was still there, that its light and warmth would return.    

I have spent long moments observing baby Corona. He is so, so white, for one thing! His mum and he love each other dearly. 

He practises social distancing, at least part of the time. 

And wherever he moves in the pen, it seems like the light follows him.

I showed my friend Ivy pictures of Corona and she exclaimed at his markings. She told me this: In days gone by, when a mother cow lost her calf and you had a calf that needed a mother, you would skin the poor dead little calf and place its hide over the orphan calf. The mother would smell her baby and because of that would accept the new little calf as her own. That's what your Corona looks like ...

Maybe it's because it's Easter in the time of Corona, but of course I thought of Jesus and His ultimate sacrifice: He freely gave up His life in order to bring us to God. Like the little dead calves of that earlier era, He is the go-between between God and us, the link between death and life. Because of His death we can approach God. And God, recognising His son's broken body, forgives us our sins and accepts us as His child if we will just ask Him to.

A brutal corona was crammed viciously on Jesus' head shortly before He was taken out to be crucified. A crown of thorns:

"The Crucified One" by C. Michael Dudash

The Bible tells us that as He hung on the cross darkness fell upon the land, the forces of evil trying one last time to extinguish the Son.

But Resurrection Sunday showed that at the other side of the darkness, the light of the world was not extinguished!

(Artist unknown)

So in this age of Corona, in the isolation, the not-knowing and the fear - for life and for liberty - don't lose hope. Remember, Corona is the light encompassing the darkness. This darkness will pass. Trust in the One who endured the greatest darkness of all and emerged triumphant on the other side.

Wash your hands.

Be kind one to another.

And let your light shine!