A Psalm of Getzandaner Park

The Lord is my shepherd.

So says the gravestone by the path that stands in the sunlight as I emerge from the tree-shrouded tunnel.

It is a new day.

To my right, the ghosts of Richards Park are presumably at play, quietly, undisturbed by a solitary walker or the intrusion of hundreds of silent granite sentinels. I imagine that the field waits for some secret signal to erupt with the voices of decades past – cheers, talk of springtime, baseball and love – a full-throated celebration pouring forth from within the painted walls and beneath the grassy infield, where they have been held in trust.

My stride quickens and slows again as I read words from distant years etched in heartache: Budded on earth to bloom in heaven. Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Gone but not forgotten.

A voice inquires of me, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

I have no answer, other than I do find life here. It is a different kind of life – a conundrum that is elusive and yet as real as anything I have ever experienced.  I find it in the trees and the dewy grass and the sound of cardinals and mockingbirds that can be heard, yes, at other times but only in fullness here, on certain days, when the air is cool and the sun is not fully up. Life comes to me as I breathe in and breathe out and my steps become more rapid. Sometimes in the overwhelming stillness and motion come names – prayers for the people I love to the God who invented the morning and could not be contained by a tomb. And sometimes what comes is silence.

Nothing to think about.

Nothing to say.

From darkness to light, back to darkness. Back through the leafy canopy, my feet hit the trail faster and faster. The pavement is hard. The water flows around me, gurgling on my left and then my right.

Water is life.

Creation.

Baptism.

Acceptance.

Promise.

Freedom.

I am suddenly back where I started.

The day begins.

The Lord is my shepherd, today, tomorrow and forevermore.