Seven Stanzas at Easter by John Updike

Make no mistake: if He rose at all

it was as His body;

if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the molecules

reknit, the amino acids rekindle,

the Church will fall

It was not as the flowers,

each soft Spring recurrent;

it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled

eyes of the eleven apostles;

it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,

the same valved heart

that–pierced–died, withered, paused, and then

regathered out of enduring Might

new strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,

analogy, sidestepping transcendence;

making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the

faded credulity of earlier ages:

let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mâché,

not a stone in a story,

but the vast rock of materiality that in the slow

grinding of time will eclipse for each of us

the wide light of day.

And if we will have an angel at the tomb,

make it a real angel,

weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair,

opaque in the dawn light, robed in real linen

spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,

for our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,

lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are

embarrassed by the miracle,

and crushed by remonstrance.

Lillian

Lillian conserved her world like a master gardener, with poise and order. She had a clear vision, encompassed by an indefinite border. She nurtured, careful to provide every need, knowing that growth is an art and a science. She smiled shyly, she laughed, sometimes nervously, always heartily. She grounded. She earthed. She flourished.

Katie

Katie crystallizes. She listens to you, reads you, perceives you... and then she gathers your unspoken thoughts and your struggled notions and expresses them to you in a few metamorphosed grains of lucid understanding. Like a prism in reverse, she gathers light from myriad sources into a single illuminating arc. To do this, I believe she entwines unflinching honesty, insatiable curiosity and simple yet diligent observation. Plus a little Katie mojo. When I stumble on myself, I talk to Katie.

Rocío

Rocío is a fierce idealist and a compassionate fellow traveler. She doesn't waver in her principles, yet recognizes that failure may lead to great creations. Rocío marches toward excellence, intolerant of laziness, in contrast to those who stumble toward mediocre renown, abetted by corruption. She is most stringent with herself. She laughs, a full-bodied laugh, channeled from the belly of the earth. She is an ocean boulder; she is a sculptor's chisel; she is a grassy field.

Rick

Rick makes anyone feel comfortable. He could meet a notorious criminal and not judge. He nourishes himself on others' thoughts, doings and motivations, especially when foreign to him. And so he engages others, amplifying their excitement for life. Despite exceptional talent and understanding, he is humble, content to let others live and explore their path. He is also unflappable when challenged with a problem or situation, calmly innovating solutions. These qualities converge to make an excellent mentor, one who demonstrates and invites.

Lucho

Lucho sang ballads in the middle of the last century. If you're of hispanic descent, your grandparents may have known him, and an even older song, "The Bardo." In Spanish, a bardo is something of a traveling poet, minstrel, or troubadour, a word no longer used commonly. The song is an old-fashioned tale of unrequited love. A simple tale of heartache resulting from unspoken emotion.



A poor bardo fell in love
with a girl of high society.
His life was that of an unhappy clown
that laughed, wanting to cry.

Wandering after her, the poor bardo would
sing to the orchids where his love dwelt
And the girl, with no idea
that the bardo adored her
married another.

They say, that on a moon-filled night
under a blanket of stars, the troubadour died.
Those who knew him said that on that night
you could hear the laments of love.

And the girl, when she learned the story,
the true story of the poor troubadour,
she said, wailing in madness,
"sorrow is killing me today,
because I loved him too."

"What a shame! Why didn't he tell me?
If I had only known, today I would be entirely his."

Charles

Charlie understood that a grandparent's role is to convey excitement for living. And that, despite all the hells and heavens of life, you can live well, because at least one person has done it before. For many of Charlie's formative years, his mother was in a coma due to a failed experimental treatment. He was by her side every week, while also building his life. Moving away after high school, he rooted in one place for life, with a vision and love for community, in the deepest sense. He loved the simple as well as the political, his family life organized his perspective, he tended the inner and the outer man, a man with integrity, at once common and spectacular.

He was a regular guy.