by Margaret DeRitter
I wake to watch my church’s
livestreamed service, but I’m late.
And the recording isn’t online yet.
I sit down alone for Easter dinner—
sweet potato, Brussels sprouts, deli ham.
No baked hams on Instacart.
I bow my head and pray for New York,
New Jersey, Detroit—that tomorrow’s
winds won’t down their power lines.
Sometimes I want to give up on prayer.
But where would that leave me?
I can’t be alone in the universe too.
The recording’s ready now.
I love the alleluias, the familiar
faces, their unwavering faith.
I love the story of Mary too,
weeping at the empty tomb,
a stranger saying her name,
her sudden recognition—
“Teacher!”—before she runs
to tell the others.
By the time the pastor sings
Up from the grave he arose,
I’m ready to bet my life on it.