Hope
Nothing says Easter like the Earth during Spring. How, for all its miraculous beauty, it doesn’t gloss over the death that Winter held — the fallen leaves, the cold, the decay, the compost — but rather, gives it honor. Gives it space to rest, transform, and eventually, become new.
I started growing this Persimmon Tree last Spring. Nobody ever told me that a baby tree just looks like a stick. And that, if you’ve never seen one grow before, you might assume it’s actually not going to at all. Now, I typically do my research in these moments of uncertainty. I ask all the questions — What does a tree seedling look like? How long until its leaves grow? What can I do to give it life? But I’d just landed in a new apartment at the time and was so exhausted by the move that I simply set it outside on my balcony and let it be. Much to my awe and surprise, a tiny bit of green started poking out of that twig within the week.
In the height of Summer, after yet another move, I finally started to see something that resembled a tree. I’d done my internet exploring at this point and splurged on a giant terracotta pot where it could grow for up to five years until it would need to go into the ground. Big beautiful leaves were bursting forth, becoming taller and stronger. I felt proud and excited.
And then the fucking leaf beetles happened. The whole thing covered in them, seemingly overnight. Also around this time, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. I began making biweekly trips to Indiana and between the driving, the grief, the chemo, and the absolute presence that was required for getting every ounce of joy I could from each day — I let the Persimmon Tree go. I let the green turn to yellow turn to gone. I didn’t even try to stop it.
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Originally written July 22nd, 2021 and published in Hail Marys.
It was the Wednesday of Holy Week.
I’d just woken up from a vivid dream. The kind I had to write down immediately. The kind I knew would linger.
I was with a man named John, whose last name means “repairer of a vessel.” We walked outside to a meeting where he became visibly upset, shouting things like, “It’s misogynistic!” He said we needed to tell everyone. I agreed and felt glad he understood. Then we sat down in front of a news crew, lights shining on our faces, while he was interviewed. I tousled my hair. After it was over, I realized I never got to talk. I told him good luck spreading the word, but the whole thing left me still feeling, sort of, inferior. Then I looked in a mirror and noticed my skin was a deep tan color. I remember thinking I looked beautiful.
That same morning, my friend Emily sent me a “Holy Week at Home” guide, inviting us to reflect on the love and courage of women. All the women who came before us, who raised us, who have walked with us. And the women who stayed at the foot of the cross when the Twelve betrayed, denied, and abandoned Jesus.
I got where this was going. And I sat with it for months, while the meaning kept unfolding and unfolding and unfolding some more.
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Lemon Bars Recipe
A friend once asked me to bake something that tastes like hope and this was the first thing that came to mind.
Ingredients
1 cup butter
4 eggs
2 cups sugar
2 cups + 4 tablespoons flour
6 tablespoons lemon juice
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
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I like my butter salted and my hope melancholic.
“When a new infusion of love is needed, Mary Magdalene shows up. Our only real choice is whether or not to cooperate.”