I sit now at Fort Snelling, the place where I most frequently cross country ski. A small state park underneath the runways of an international airport. It is the day before Easter, and, even in Minnesota, this is not a day for skiing. The snow is gone, the paths have changed from double tracks to asphalt and gravel, the grass is turning a slight shade of green, and buds are beginning on the trees.

So I must put away the skis. I must forget them as six months ago I stood beside my sailboat, outboard in the back of the truck, locks in place, electronics in the old suitcase, and put the boat behind me, rooted her from my life, decided to ignore her for months to come, behave as if she did not exist.

Oh, how we would all love a cheap Resurrection.

It is the day before Easter. The story of Jesus tempts people to jump to the last chapter. We begin with the loveliness of the stable, and leap forthwith to the rolled back rock. There he was born to the beautiful mother, and here he is, resurrected from the dead.

But there was an in-between. He lived. He struggled. He was rejected. He died horribly.

We would like to live our lives in the short form, the Reader's Digest version. We would like to begin our lives in success, cling to that success,and then experience the joy of resurrection.

It does not work that way.

Every major step of our journey calls for dying to the last step, indeed often suffering and dying to the last step. We are weaned in pain from the nipple, give up in regret the child's freedom from responsibility, hate leaving the relaxation of the college campus, regret losing the flexibility of our joints, weep over the dimming of our eyes.

Life moves from sorrow to sorrow.

Unless we die easily. Unless we forget the nipple and rejoice in solid food. Unless we forget freedom and rejoice in responsibility. Unless we allow our bodies to age, and welcome wisdom. Unless we are willing to die. For if we are, the resurrection will happen. And if we are not...

Sigurd Olson, a man of the North Country, a man of many miles in canoes, tells of being airlifted in to one of his favorite campsites and fishing spots. A special permission he was given because of his age and fame. He did not enjoy it. The place was that day not splendid.

He had not suffered the miles to arrive at it. He had not felt the exhaustion of the portage, the stiffening of his arms as the day wore on stroke by stroke. The blister had not formed on his hand. When he stepped out at the campsite there was no crick to be stretched from his back.

He had used an airplane to skip to the last chapter, the one labeled "resurrection." But he had not risen. For he had not been given the time and the pain to die.

I sit here at Fort Snelling, the outbound airplanes climbing over my head, and I see the death of my winter's skiing. The steady swish of blades down a narrow trail past the herd of deer is not to be for seven months, or even more. How long shall I experience sorrow? Not a moment more, for the door of spring is opening.

A robin has just passed overhead. A father and his children are four picnic tables away. Bicycles pass from time to time on the paths. One season now turns into another.

There is a priest of my church who on retirement, together with his wife, sold everything they had, lock, stock, and barrel and sent a letter to national headquarters saying that they would serve anywhere they were needed. Over the next twenty years they have been sent from city to city. Every place, they rent an apartment, lease furniture, lease a car. Meet new friends. Take on new challenges. Exercise the wisdom of their years. Then, they move on.

Life for them is a yearly resurrection. At the same time it is a yearly death. They seem quite content. Even happy.

But then what else would one expect from someone who understood the life of Jesus. Someone who was willing to repeat the cycle from chapter to chapter, not skipping to the end, welcoming the closing of doors, allowing the tears to form only for a moment, before looking around to see the door opening.

I sit now at Fort Snelling. Two months ago, at almost this same spot the sun had warmed the winter path to the point that I had to be watchful for breaks in the snow that would trap my ski and put me on my face. So watchful that I saw only at the last minute the small figure gliding toward me on a collision course down the single double track. I pulled off, waited for him, engaged him in conversation by complaining about the warmth.

He said that unlike me he was cheerful. He was seventy six years old, had been skiing since he was seven, raced on a couple of continents, won quite a few and had been able to get out of bed this morning and step into a pair of skis. He found that singular fact enough cause to label this a joyous day, and this weather, excellent skiing weather.

On that path, on that day, I found a man who understood Easter.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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