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.
Fall and Winter came, my traveling continued, and I did what I had to do to survive. Early bedtimes, frozen dinners, Uber Eats, romantasy novels, Netflix binges, along with countless moments that words can’t possibly capture. And — leaving the bare tree, as well as the rest of my potted container garden, completely untouched. Out in the freezing temperatures, the ice and snow. Filled with mucky water, dead plants, and some wind blown trash. It stayed like that for months. Rotting. While I kept my hands off, while I did nothing.
Of course there comes a time when doing nothing turns into doing something, though that something might look different than it did before. The days get longer and warmer, the Earth starts waking up and so do we. There’s a buzz in the air, in our bones, and the energy must be released. So a few weeks ago, I went down to my garden and got to work. I cleared off the leaves, tore out last year’s leftovers, threw on some fresh soil, mixed in a little finished compost, and decided to wait until after the last frost before planting my seeds.
For whatever reason, I left what remained of the old tree twig. I figured I’d deal with it later. Everything I could remember reading about keeping it alive through cold seasons involved bringing it indoors, so I wasn’t expecting it to come back to life. But if I’m being honest, I did think about the possibility. Even when I was entirely too tired to consciously imagine it last year, I did hope for it. And last week, I did walk out to my garden to find that Persimmon Tree, resurrected.
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.
Until late September, during a Center for Action and Contemplation Mary Magdalene course taught by Cynthia Bourgeault with Brie Stoner, when we dug into the Gospel of John. Though it was the last to be written, I learned there’s strong scholarly evidence it was originally semi-finished around AD 80 but went under construction until the early 2nd century in order to fit the “Master Story.” During this extensive revision, Mary Magdalene got written out, and John stole the show.
Then Cynthia said the words out loud that I already knew inside:
“Everyone thinks it's Maundy Thursday at the Last Supper, but Holy Week as a liturgical celebration actually begins on Wednesday with the anointing ceremony. Perfectly bookending the Resurrection, in which Mary comes with the same sacred anointing oil. If you cut Mary Magdalene out, you cut out the essence of the Christian transformational message.”
I flashed back to the Wednesday evening I had my dream, celebrating the start of Passover with some close friends. Pouring out prayers and oils, washing each other’s feet.
Later on in class, Cynthia shared her own woken-from-a-deep-sleep moment that told her to go to the Song of Songs to find Mary’s voice.
I looked it up myself and began reading the first chapter:
“I am dark, but lovely,
O daughters of Jerusalem,
Like the tents of Kedar,
Like the curtains of Solomon.
Do not look upon me, because I am dark,
Because the sun has tanned me.”
And everything came together. Ah, of course — the Gospel of John, the vessel, the women, the misogyny, the voiceless Mary, the tan skin, the anointing.
The bigger picture became clear.
I saw a woman who prepared her Beloved for burial and stuck around as his witness, trusting a vision only she could see from within, until he rose again.
I saw her love as an image of The Love that never leaves us even when we feel doomed.
I saw why Meggan Watterson says Jesus needed it in order to resurrect. That his purpose was fulfilled because she was there to meet him.
I saw this alternative model for partnership. One that shows us how to let go and still love — through every journey a person must take. Every ego death, every soul rising. Holding them in your heart while giving them the space to save themselves.
I saw the importance of tending to your own soul work, remaining the pillar of your own life, standing in your own magnetic power.
I saw goodness in our longing, our feeling, our grieving, our weeping. Desire like the spark of creation. Darkness like fertile soil. Tears like rainwater. The tomb more like a womb.
I saw the Apostle to the Apostles. The one human who could relay the full message of the risen Christ — silenced.
I saw how different Christianity would be if it included the whole story. The hidden part. The woman's side. The Feminine. Mary Magdalene. So with my own voice, I speak up for hers — hoping someday, maybe it will.
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
Instructions
Melt butter in a large bowl. Mix in 2 cups flour and 1/2 cup powdered sugar.
Pat in 9 x 13 baking pan lined with parchment paper. Bake at 350°F for 15 minutes.
Remove crust from oven. Lower oven temperature to 325°F.
In a large bowl, combine 2 cups sugar, 4 tablespoons flour, and 1/2 teaspoon baking powder.
In a medium bowl, beat 4 eggs. Mix in 6 tablespoons of lemon juice. Add to dry ingredients.
Pour over crust and bake for 35 minutes.
Let cool completely — I like to let them sit overnight, remove from pan (still attached to parchment paper), cut to desired bar size, and sift additional powdered sugar on top.
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.”