Jesus is Laid in the Tomb

I live off of Orchard Street, where my house occupies what was once an orchard. The soil in my neighborhood is exceptional, fostering the growth of a towering catalpa tree in my backyard, visible from blocks away. Though the seed of this tree may seem insignificant, its transformation into the shading presence under which my child plays and where we dangle patio lights depended on its burial and surrender to the soil.

Similar to the seed, Jesus surrenders his body to the tomb, just as Joseph, unaware, mirrors a farmer planting seeds, laying Jesus' linen-wrapped body in a carved-out tomb and sealing its entrance. In the darkness below, will the seed of his body find life? Will the rains come down from heaven? Is it good soil? We wait, akin to farmers awaiting the sprout, for Jesus' body to take root and break forth, transcending the tomb's confines. It's not merely a backyard garden we envision but a farm, where life hinges on the seed's ability to take root. Will Jesus' body break through and the tomb be shattered? We wait.