Crown of Thorns

I’m down by the creek, wandering and wondering. I’m hoping to find something–some nest, some egg, some fantastic creature. I peer deep into the rushing water, wanting. I feel like the naturalist E.O. Wilson when he writes from the water’s edge, “I also hoped for more. . . what exactly I could not say: something to enchant the rest of my life.”

Something to enchant the rest of my life. 

Defeated in the search, I make my way back to civilization. As I push away branches and tall shoots, looking one last time for something, anything, I come upon the strangest tree I’ve ever seen in my life. From the trunk, enormous thorns protrude; they jut out longer than my arm.

It’s some kind of locust–a honey locust or black locust–that grows in marshy areas. But I’ve never seen one in Pennsylvania.

I stand there, after all my searching and wandering, and I see Jesus’ crown of thorns. I stand there, suddenly in awe as I consider this particular Easter moment. I stand there, satisfied that in all of creation, I consider nothing more beautiful, astonishing, enchanting, and fulfilling as this reality of Jesus crucified and resurrected.

I stand there, enchanted for the rest of my life.

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