when more than was lost has been found

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-

-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!

yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly

yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be

(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound

and wishing is having and having is giving-

but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense

-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!

now the pretty birds hover so she and so he

now the little fish quiver so you and so i

(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found

and having is giving and giving is living-

but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing

-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!

all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky

all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea

(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

~ee cummings

Recently I encountered this poem in the form of a song at my friend Emily's voice lesson. I sat at the piano while she and her teacher talked about some things not involving me, and read the text--over and over and over. I kept returning to "keeping is darkness and winter and cringing". Keeping? Is that how I should try to explain my state of being over the past who-knows-how-many years? Keeping? Holding. Hording. Controlling. In the words of cummings, Downward. Doubting. Never. [pause for breath and reflection...] Doting and Nothing and Nonsense. Keeping. Trying to take care of myself, by myself. Not trusting that Someone Else has offered to do it for me.

Perhaps it struck me at this particular moment more deeply than it otherwise would have, because I had recently felt a corner change somewhere in the deepest part of my being--an arrival in a new place. A place that felt like the opposite of keeping--a place of breathing-wishing-having-giving-living. A place where more than what was lost was indeed found--a place that involves trusting God instead of trying so hard to figure out how to please Him, how to get the answers right, how to keep myself safe [doting. nothing. nonsense. replaced with day, life, breath, found].

I've been thinking of this poem because--well, it's april (my darling!). But I've also been thinking about it because it's an important weekend for any follower of Christ.

Tonight I walked the steps of Christ--from communion at the last supper to the tomb--in a meaningfully symbolic portrayal set up throughout the building used by my Church. I watched the wine spread through the bread I dipped in it, in anticipation of the blood that was about to flow. I stood in the garden of gethsemane, and wondered at the depth of the darkness and at the vision it would have taken to know how to walk out of it. I sat in Peter's dark night of the soul, and remembered what it was like to deny--to question if this was the Person I thought I knew, to wonder if He is worthy of standing up for after all, not knowing who to believe; to feel betrayed by the turn of events, yet understanding deeply that it is I who am betraying, not knowing what to do. I looked at my thumb covered in red ink that I couldn't wipe clean, and couldn't get away from the taste of vinegar on my tongue and in the back of my throat. I tentatively leaned a 96 lb. cross on my back, and got out from under it before it got close to uncomfortable. I looked at criminals hanging next to Christ, and wondered who it is that I see as criminals hanging near me? Who do I write off--unlike Christ--while I go about my life focused on the weight I think I bear? I sat next to a giant cross and listed all of the ways I miss the mark--all of the sin that fuels my days. And then I picked up a hammer and nailed the list to that cross with finality, because the cross made the mark that took it all away. It is finished.

I don't have to try and keep anything anymore.

All that I thought I'd lost is Found.

And when Jesus said that faith could move mountains? I believe those mountains are dancing.