(Thomas Froese Photo)
(The Hamilton Spectator – Saturday, March 28, 2026)
Speaking of spring, here’s a thought.
Given the choice to be a human who walks on the ground or a seed that’s planted into the ground, most of us would opt for the human experience despite the various headaches involved.
Not that seeds can’t have their day in the sun, so to speak. They can and do. You don’t need to be a farmer or agronomist to think about it any more than you need to be a monk or a nun to think about something like forgiveness.
Take the story of the bro who asked for some of the bread that’s out there. His fair share. Even a slice. I mean, we all need to eat.
As if some unseen hand reached into the field of his life, the work then began. First the field’s stumps and heavy stones were removed. Then its ground, hard and full of weeds, was painfully plowed. Wheat was then sown.
Next came the rain and the sunshine, back and forth. In time the wheat grew. Then, eventually, the harvest. It was threshed to get rid of its waste, and then ground, sifted and milled into flour. More pain and time.
Then the dough. During its kneading it got slapped around. Then into a pan and into the oven, the heat and fire of it all at the going temperature for making bread.
Finally, that bread was finished. By now our friend pretty much forgot what he’d even asked for, but it was finally served, warm with creamy butter made from his most sacred cow.
You’d have to be a masochist to be interested in any of it. You’d also have to not care if the trains are ever on time.
The local cemetery is where you might think about it. You’re walking past an old oak that can tell some stories. A stone cross stands large, its Celtic circle symbolizing what even the devils hope in their honest moments, that God’s love is truly never ending.
You hear voices. They’re palliative care workers, deathbed confessions they’ve heard. I wish I’d lived true to myself, not just for others’ expectations. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard and missed my kids growing up. I wish I’d kept in touch with friends. I wish I’d risked more. Reflected more. Did more to leave something behind. I wish, good God, I’d forgiven sooner.
I wish I’d forgiven my son. My daughter. My father. My mother. My brother. My sister. My partner. My ex. I wish I’d forgiven my friend. My neighbour. My business partner, that #$*!! crook. The psychologists can tell more, how unforgiveness will steal your years before it eats you alive, inside out, a square meal. Then this one: I wish I’d forgiven myself.
But that cross. Not that it’s the world’s most-recognized symbol. Surveys show this honour goes to the golden arches of McDonald’s. Then again, nobody ever went to McDonald’s to ask for forgiveness, unless it was for eating one too many Big Macs.
“Father forgive them because they don’t know what they’re doing,” is what Jesus said from his cross. It keeps ringing across the centuries like a clanging bell. You needn’t be there as a ticket holder to Roman crucifixions to see its horror, and holiness, both. Despite the predictable phoneys and charlatans, this week before Easter is still known in much of the world as Holy Week.
In our time we still don’t know what we’re doing. Some bomber just left my children burning in their beds. And you say forgive?
No, bro, you can’t. Not any more than you can make a seed, never mind make dirt. But you can plant a seed in the dirt of your life. Or receive one without much fuss. See what new life might eventually grow. Look at the fields of spring. Is each one not a miracle?
Seeds of bitterness can grow large too. But that’s another story, the one where everyone dies.