Corsicana —
In Minnesota March is greeted with snow-covered fields of frozen earth. April snowfall is not uncommon. When we lived there, I once planted our garden on May 1 only to have it freeze. But we are back in Texas where spring comes early. The first of March finds nurseries overflowing with flowers and vegetables begging for a place to grow. Whether in Minnesota or Texas, there is something about digging in the earth, sowing seed and burying plants in the freshly turned soil. It is an act of faith, of hope and expectation. It is an ancient ritual of believing. It is a way of interacting with life’s mysterious miracle. When I was in Minnesota, I wrote a poem about the experience.
I have bedded them,
laid them down to sleep,
dug shallow graves
and buried them
beneath soft soil,
dark, moist, rich dirt,
gently padded and patted.
They have been accepted
by the earth,
their burial signified by stick-markers
on which are written their names,
not in remembrance but in expectation,
waiting for them to wake,
to spring from dormant death into full flower:
pink and red and lavender,
yellow and white
the funeral-ritual of spring.
Cemeteries are like gardens, the name markers signifying the faith and hope with which the bodies of those who have gone on before were laid to rest. What is buried appears to be dead and lifeless. But is it?
Paul had this image in mind when he wrote, “When you sow, you do not plant the body that will be, but just a seed, perhaps of wheat or of something else. But God gives it a body as he has determined, and to each kind of seed he gives its own body. … So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.
I declare to you, brothers and sisters, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’ … thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 15:37-54).
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Bill Tinsley is a 1965 graduate of CHS. He lives with his wife, Jackie, in Waco. For more information visit www.tinsleycenter.com. He may be reached by email at bill@tinsleycenter.com .
Opinion
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Bill Tinsley
Discussion
Spring planting
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‘O My Soul’
Whatever happened to the concept of the soul? All our conversation, it seems, revolves around our bodies and money: how we look, how to stay healthy, how to remain young, how to become wealthy.
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No ifs, ands, or butts
Having hindsight in the little New Jersey resort town of Wildwood will soon be a civic offense punishable by a $25 fine.
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Bits and pieces from all over
I’m all for taking the quickest route from “Point A” to “Point B” as much as the next guy.
I guess it’s just human nature to want to get to where you are going as quickly and efficiently as you can so you can get on with your life.
There have to be some limits to that, though. -
Father’s Day dilemma
What to get my father for Father’s Day is one of those no-win situations, like nuclear war or when you’re eating something someone worked really hard to cook but it’s awful. Lie and they poison their own family. Tell the truth and you’re an insensitive jerk. You’re toast, either way.
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My Daddy, My Hero
A dad is a little girl’s first hero. I realize not everyone is fortunate enough to have a father in the picture from birth, but for those who do, he can be a giant.
I write this on Flag Day, June 14, Friday, which marks four years since my Daddy departed his earthly body and went to reside with his Savior. I miss him. Strangely, his own father, Fred. E. “Bud” Brown also passed away on this date in 1985.
Those two men were my heroes. -
It makes no sense
There are a lot of things I see or hear of every day that make no sense to me. At the top of my list is our criminal justice system. At this point, I could go into a rant about lawyers but I won’t — I’ve got too much class to tell lawyer jokes. Well, maybe just one?
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Its a ‘baby thing’
I guess every birth is as unique as the child it produces.
After having inductions at 38 weeks (with NO epidural) myself, I was unprepared for the “going into labor on your own” avenue of childbearing. (For anyone not familiar, I’m discussing grandchildren here.) -
Real world issue
Our Janet Jacobs has a story in today’s paper about the early work on the City of Corsicana 2013-14 budget, and some of the challenges they are facing in the coming year.
I feel quite certain that we all can “relate” to that — it’s a battle the working folk in this city, and hundreds of other cities across the nation, have been fighting for some time now. -
Teachable moments
A few summers ago, my wife and I had the privilege of keeping our grandchildren for a few weeks in Montana. They were 8, 10 and 11. We normally saw them for a few days two or three times a year. I felt like Santa Claus, showering them with presents at Christmas, but not part of their daily lives.
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Storm warnings
This will be the first time The Little Woman (she dislikes that name) and I will have spent an entire hurricane season here on the Gulf Coast. Predictions range from “It’s just another year in paradise” to “you may not have to wait until Christmas to have a tree in your house!”
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