解放军文职招聘考试Spring, the Resurrection Time

 Spring, the Resurrection Time

Spring is not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon our Virginia hills in one prodigious leap—and all the stage is filled at once, whole choru­ses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flow­ering plums. The trees grow leaves overnight.

In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, over­come by shyness, like my grandchild at the door, pee­ping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. " I know you're out there," I cry, " come in I" And April slips into our arms.

The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with rus­set markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clus­tered seeds are nestled. One examines the bud in awe:

Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples dis­play their milliner's scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up—primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms—you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.

The dark Blue Ridge Mountains in which I dwell, great-hipped, big-breasted, slumber on the western sky. And then they stretch and gradually awaken. A warm wind, soft as a girl's hair, moves sailboat clouds in gentle skies. The rains come—good rains to sleep by—and fields that were dun as oatmeal turn to pale green, then to kelly green.

Look! The rain falls, and something happens. It is the germination process. Germ of what? Germ of life, germ inexplicable, germ of wonder. The dry seed ruptures and the green leaf uncurls. Here is a message that transcends the rites of any church or creed. I would challenge any doubting Thomas in my pea patch.

This is the resurrection time. That which was dead, or so it seemed, has come to life again—the stiff branch, supple; the brown earth, green. This is the miracle: There is no death; there is in truth eternal life.