It is Tuesday. Easter Sunday has come and gone. Yesterday, Monday, the day after … I could still feel it. But today is the day after the day after, and already I feel it slipping away.

While we were away on holidays last week, I read the gospel of Mark several times. As I read the last chapters, I pictured each day of that week as it happened … the triumphal entry, the cursing of the tree and the cleansing of the temple, the passover, the trial, the end … the beginning. I read the words and I tried to put myself there. And I felt it. A little. I could almost see it.

But today I struggle. I see laundry and mud and yard work that needs to be done. And coughing children.

So I stop for a few minutes. Pause. To remember that, even then, in those days after, they didn’t always see him. It wasn’t always easy.

I lift my head and look around. And I see the green plants on the window sill, and the one shiny fingerprint-free window pane that I washed yesterday, and my grandma’s yellow bowl on the kitchen counter. I smell the baking cookies, nutmeg and cinnamon and butter. I touch the top of my boy’s head as he walks by, and grab his hand, and fold him in for a hug.

I breathe and I allow the prick of tears that I feel for some reason known only to Him because that is how He made me. And I feel it. A little.

He is risen. The day after the day after; He is here. If I look, I see.