ISOLATION DIARIES PART 17: UNDER THE OAK TREE

I'd say we've done our best to make it as normal an Easter as it could've been, under lockdown.

On Easter Sunday afternoon, I sat under the shade of the oak tree, the dappled shade flickering over me as the wind moved the leaves through the sunlight. There was a thump of a football and a dog barking way off in the distance, but not many people around in the park.

I phoned my parents. They were in the garden, not really doing much other than aching for everyone. I had to reassure my Mum that all the things we're missing are just delayed for brighter times. The lamb dinner and family parties will be back - we just have to hold tight.

In the end, my friend Sarah had brought me over an Easter egg. That was such a nice thing, and it really did help. Plus there had been church - which, strange as it is online (and it is strange), was weirdly connecting on such a bright but lonesome Easter Day.

My Aunty too, sent me a text promising Easter biscuits when the time is right. She included a photo of them, wrapped in a bag ready, next to a cup of tea in my usual spot in their house.

And perhaps more than ever, there was time this Easter - time to reflect; time to sit under trees and think...

A warm February evening swam into my mind, when myself and Paul had been the last visitors to the garden tomb in Jerusalem. Dusk was falling, the sun just barely twinkling through the olive branches when we walked around that gentle place, imagining an ancient story.

There were twisting and ancient trees, crumbling Roman columns, flowers bobbing in the evening air and birds singing themselves to sleep. There was a deep inset winepress, and small water fountains that trickled in the flower beds. And there was the tomb itself, its open doorway glowing with candlelight. Rough hewn stones lined the track where the stone would once have rolled, and Paul and I, with beating hearts, bent low and shuffled inside.

Whether you believe it or not, it's hard not to argue that the Resurrection changed everything. It became the foundation stone of a movement that would shape and define the world - the terrified and broken became the courageous and whole; the disillusioned failures were suddenly the fathers and the mothers of faith itself, and those who came in sorrow to the garden would leave with inexpressible joy. Every tear was wiped away.

And that thought gave me at least a little bit of hope, once again, under the oak tree.

Somebody, somewhere, had decided that the day to celebrate these things was the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox... but that doesn't matter this year - we're in lockdown! It doesn't matter any year actually; it's an arbitrary point in time, and the Resurrection is for all of us, every day. So one day in the summer, at the WATIO point (When All This Is Over) it will be Easter again, and I'll see my parents and hug my nieces and nephews in floods of tears - knowing it for real.

Weeping may endure for the night, but if Easter taught us anything, it's that joy always comes in the morning. Heaven is for real.

I smiled to myself under the oak tree as my Mum clicked off the phone. A cool breeze whipped round, rippling the translucent green leaves and shuffling the shadows on the grass. It is lovely to have things to look forward to.