In a conversation early this holy week with a ministry colleague, the correlation between a needed space for healing and the imaginary land of Rivendell came up. They spoke of it with an almost reverent tone, reflecting on the peace and renewal found there in the healing presence of Elrond, the leader of that land. My brain grabbed hold of that information and the imagery it brought up and I couldn't get it out until I spent some time considering and writing.

The Lord of the Rings books have been peripheral in my life for as long as I can remember. Growing up, hobbits and elves came up in conversation just like any other friends. For many years, Tolkein and Lewis were the safe havens, escape from a life that felt anything but. I much preferred Lewis, and the wood between the worlds is a place I still often daydream to. But in hearing of Rivendell at a moment when my spirit was open, I dove into discovering all it represents. 

What came from that exploration was an hope that echoed forward from my trip to Alaska last weekend. I wrote a piece about that experience and where I found resurrection themes as I flew west that hasn't been shared quite yet... but Rivendell was a deepening realization of how often these themes have been present in the edges of my awareness.

If you, too, are celebrating Easter differently this year... or if you are simply surviving... may you find a moment to breath as you consider resurrection in Rivendell.

Here in Rivendell, the air itself sings.

Each breeze is a melody of green renewal,

carrying the sound of water that laughs as it trips over stones.

It is a wind that whispers old songs to young leaves.

This is no ordinary day, 
for nothing is that simple here.

Today is a new resurrection under an eternal sunbeam,

where shadows know their place and keep to it.

Here, where elves weave time into golden threads,

we come not only to remember.

We come to receive whatever is needed.

Not all we desire, perhaps,

but everything the earth in us craves.

There is a table; long, carved, ancient.

It stretches as far as hope itself,

and is laden with fruits of healing
and breads of promise.

Each chalice overflows;

not with the wine of yesterday,

but the nectar of forever.

Easter here isn’t a single dawn,

it is a symphony of fresh beginnings and new starts.

It is Elrond’s voice at the end of a long winter:

"Rest now, weary ones.

Take all that you have lost and hold it as your own."

It is laughter echoing through the garden,

and deep roots breaking through the earth’s surface

to kiss the sunlight for the first time.

Here, you need not ask for forgiveness.

Simply breathe it in, like the scent of new rain.

You will not search for renewal.

Somewhere between the starlight
and the song of an unseen lark...

it finds you.

Resurrection here isn’t just of spirit.

It is of the weary hands,

the broken voice,

the heart that beats only out of habit.

It is the resuscitation of dreams,

long folded carefully like parchment

and tucked away for safekeeping.

We gather now in the light of Rivendell’s dawn,

where silence hums with grace.

As we do, the song of life finds harmony,
a quiet crescendo as everything awakens,

and mercy sparkles plentiful in the morning dew.

We are not merely guests here, we are kin.

We come empty, and we leave whole,

for this is Easter as it was meant to be:

a feast of what’s been broken,

a dawn for what’s been buried.

In each moment here, the world turns gently

and every living thing sings in unison:

All that is needed will be given.
All that is given, enough.

All that was lost will be found again.