It is difficult to dislodge even a whimsical memory after it has escaped the shadowy fringes of the inner life and bored itself into consciousness. Side by side with the Christian image of resurrection, the unbidden memory of my child self in an Easter outfit, a pink seersucker suit and little white hat with a perky flower attached, challenged me to make a story out of this apparent incongruity.

Instead of picturing Christ’s mystifying escape from his stone tomb, I saw only my sister and me, similarly adorned in our Easter outfits, squirming in our uncomfortable new clothes while my mother focused her camera to get a snapshot for my absent grandparents.

It is very doubtful that church attendance followed. My father, an elapsed Methodist, but devoted lover of hymns may have, this once, taken us to Easter service. But it is more likely that he did not want to invite my mother’s silent scorn for indulging in what she considered perfectly absurd behavior, i.e. trotting us down to the Methodist church for a sermon.

She had abandoned all religion at the age of 13, departing the Lutheran church, with a firm “Never again!” Apostasy ran in her blood; my legendary great great grandfather went to seminary in Germany and left within days, announcing that students and teachers alike were nothing but hypocrites.

Easter morning this year found me circling the punky trunk of my favorite tree which has lain on the ground for over a year. Decaying with great beauty to display innumerable textures and variations of form, this pear, long my avatar, welcomes the squirrels and chipmunks who still love running up and down its length. In winter, juncos and jays rely on the remnants of her arthritic limbs as a resting place as they await their turns on the suet feeders. On this chilly morning I am searching for any surviving Narcissus poeticus bulbs I planted in the fall. Relieved, I count all 10 sprouting in the greening grass. They will make a bright necklace around the skeletal remains of my old friend.

The pear tree speaks to me of resurrection. Not only because of her enduring grace but because she has bequeathed me two daughters. Like Christ’s, their parentage will remain shrouded in a blessed and unique complexity. Their complete heritage is unknown, whereas my avatar was a deliberate hybrid which long yielded gracious harvests of hard green fruit each fall. Her daughters, however, are sterile with sharp spikes on their branches though their leaves are lush and of the deep enameled green of their mother’s. And on this spring morning I see that robins and a cardinal depend on the two to provide a safe roost within their delicate branches. At sunrise these birds sing the old pear’s praises, so like my father singing out his favorite hymn, Abide with Me.

In these dark times we acknowledge that a resurrection brings enlightenment whether it arrives while one is sitting in a pew with a breviary or standing alone in an everyday backyard soon to be lit by narcissi circling two young trees. We plant ourselves deeply in a chosen faith to dispel, at least momentarily, the dark pains of cruelty that sometimes overwhelm us and to revitalize our commitment to remain hopeful and humane.

Margot Fleck, in Northfield, seeks to interweave biological realities with the abiding spirits of ancient myths.