As Roadie and I walked a few minutes ago, we passed little Webster Methodist Church across the street from my house. There, in the tiny garden beside it, congregants had gathered in a circle inside the perimeter of its white picket fence. They had gathered for a sunrise service, but no sunrise was in evidence. Standing in their pastels with sweaters and jackets against the chilly fog, they were singing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” in unison, with increasing volume at each verse. Inside, a piano plinked away the harmony through open windows.

I wanted to pull out my phone and take a picture, but it was too sacred a moment to capture in a photo or a vine.

“Christ hath opened paradise!” they sang, and awakening songbirds joined in.

Roadie alerted and mumbled as if he would like to join in, too.

At the center of the tulip-graced garden is a path in the shape of a cross, lined with timbers and paved with wood chips. From it, there is really no place to go but up.

No miracle happened. The sun did not break out of the clouds. The chill did not give way to warmth. All over town, graves remained closed.

But they sang a song of faith that sometime, all that will change.

And it will.