Dear friends,
It’s been a busy old week, as holy week usually is, but here I am, finally, on Easter Sunday evening, sat on the sofa with a cuppa and a biscuit, immensely grateful for the journey this year. Today, in our Easter morning service, we dressed the cross with flowers. Some flowers were from last week’s wedding in the chapel, some were bought, some were from gardens, others from hedgerows. All of them fragile, all of them beautiful. We threaded them through the chicken wire which had been wrapped around the wood, turning a symbol of pain into a small festival of colour. And now that flowered cross hangs on the tree outside our church, a silent witness to the resurrection — not loud, not grand, just quietly insistent that beauty can appear where you would least expect it. May the God who surprises us with hope bless you this Easter season. May you hear your own name spoken with love, the way Mary did in the garden. A name she’d heard every day, yet when spoken by the risen Christ it changed the entire direction of her life. May you sense that same tenderness as you go about your days— in a moment of calm, in a word of kindness, in the surprising feeling that you are held and known. May that flowered cross outside teach us something, that transformation happens slowly, in ordinary gestures. We did not remove the roughness of the wood; we simply brought beauty to it. And somehow, in the bringing, the whole thing took on a new shape. So may we bring our own honest truths—our joys, worries, mistakes, and dreams—to the places in our lives that feel sharp or unfinished. And may we find that something gentle can grow there too. May our church be a wide, honest space. A place where people can rest, ask questions, meet kindness at the door, and find the companionship of people who are trying to live with faith, with humour, and with hope. May we be that gentle presence for others: listening well, showing understanding, sharing laughter or simply offering silence when silence is the truest gift. May peace take root in us. Not the kind of peace that avoids the difficult things, but the kind that stays present through them. Peace that lets you breathe again. Peace that knows resurrection is as much about slow growth as sudden joy. May we notice the small resurrections happening around us: birdsong in the morning, a cup of tea, a friend checking in. May our community continue to grow in love. Real love: practical, patient, willing to say sorry, willing to celebrate, willing to learn. May resurrection shape us into people who notice beauty, seek justice, and choose compassion. And as you walk past the church in the coming days and weeks, may the flowered cross on the tree catch your eye and may it remind you that resurrection often begins with something simple— a small gesture, a fragile flower, a brave “yes” whispered in faith. So, may the blessing of the One who created you, the Christ who calls you by name, and the Spirit who brings life to everything rest upon you and remain with you today and always.
Blessed Easter to all
Go well Karen
It’s been a busy old week, as holy week usually is, but here I am, finally, on Easter Sunday evening, sat on the sofa with a cuppa and a biscuit, immensely grateful for the journey this year. Today, in our Easter morning service, we dressed the cross with flowers. Some flowers were from last week’s wedding in the chapel, some were bought, some were from gardens, others from hedgerows. All of them fragile, all of them beautiful. We threaded them through the chicken wire which had been wrapped around the wood, turning a symbol of pain into a small festival of colour. And now that flowered cross hangs on the tree outside our church, a silent witness to the resurrection — not loud, not grand, just quietly insistent that beauty can appear where you would least expect it. May the God who surprises us with hope bless you this Easter season. May you hear your own name spoken with love, the way Mary did in the garden. A name she’d heard every day, yet when spoken by the risen Christ it changed the entire direction of her life. May you sense that same tenderness as you go about your days— in a moment of calm, in a word of kindness, in the surprising feeling that you are held and known. May that flowered cross outside teach us something, that transformation happens slowly, in ordinary gestures. We did not remove the roughness of the wood; we simply brought beauty to it. And somehow, in the bringing, the whole thing took on a new shape. So may we bring our own honest truths—our joys, worries, mistakes, and dreams—to the places in our lives that feel sharp or unfinished. And may we find that something gentle can grow there too. May our church be a wide, honest space. A place where people can rest, ask questions, meet kindness at the door, and find the companionship of people who are trying to live with faith, with humour, and with hope. May we be that gentle presence for others: listening well, showing understanding, sharing laughter or simply offering silence when silence is the truest gift. May peace take root in us. Not the kind of peace that avoids the difficult things, but the kind that stays present through them. Peace that lets you breathe again. Peace that knows resurrection is as much about slow growth as sudden joy. May we notice the small resurrections happening around us: birdsong in the morning, a cup of tea, a friend checking in. May our community continue to grow in love. Real love: practical, patient, willing to say sorry, willing to celebrate, willing to learn. May resurrection shape us into people who notice beauty, seek justice, and choose compassion. And as you walk past the church in the coming days and weeks, may the flowered cross on the tree catch your eye and may it remind you that resurrection often begins with something simple— a small gesture, a fragile flower, a brave “yes” whispered in faith. So, may the blessing of the One who created you, the Christ who calls you by name, and the Spirit who brings life to everything rest upon you and remain with you today and always.
Blessed Easter to all
Go well Karen
RSS Feed
