Photo © 2026 Lisa Loucks‑Christenson. All Rights Reserved.
Standing in the oak savanna where the bloodroot once bloomed (Easter 2011), by Future Willow Pond, looking over the city of Rochester — one angle of Easter Sunday’s rainbow breaking through rain and light. The full sequence across the sanctuary will appear in Oak Savanna Winds: Willow Pond, Book 2 in the Oak Savanna Winds series (Blue Lupine, Book 1).
Faith & Devotionals by Lisa Loucks‑Christenson
“Your story isn’t finished yet,” a former Native American cop told me — I’m bringing light and uncovered truth to heal, not hurt, so others can be free.
Easter Renewal: The Rainbow and the Robins at Willow Pond
Shot on: April 5, 2026, at 18:23 CDT — Easter Sunday
Published: April 6, 2026, at 5:00 a.m. CDT
By: MMJ Lisa Loucks‑Christenson
From Oak Savanna Winds: Willow Pond, Book 2 in the Oak Savanna Winds series (Book 1: Blue Lupine)
A passing rain and a breaking rainbow became a living portrait of faith and remembrance — where love, loss, and renewal converged at Future Willow Pond.
As Easter Sunday settled into evening, I stepped out to continue filming Oak Savanna Winds: Willow Pond, Book 2 in my Oak Savanna Winds series (Book 1: Blue Lupine). My husband mentioned there was a fifty‑percent chance of rain. He was right — the sky itself seemed divided: gray clouds to the southeast, blue and gold light down the center of my sanctuary.
Working on multiple documentaries, I was also finishing shots for my Lilacs Under Thunder project, inspired by my 1988 short story When Old Memories Don’t Move Away, a one‑afternoon memoir with my father and family visiting his old farm in Preston, Minnesota. That story, the lilacs, and this landscape have always formed the roots of my creative path — threads of memory and renewal.
When the sun broke through the rain, I hurried toward the same place where I once photographed a bloodroot flower on Easter Sunday, April 11, 2011 — the last day I spent at my sister’s former home, land I now steward as my own. The bloodroot, with its red sap that flows when the root breaks, has always mirrored our family’s resilience through heartbreak and transition.
This time, the memory deepened far beyond symbolism. Beneath the willow tree we planted and named for my sister — the one that now shades Future Willow Pond — her ashes are spread. When she died here, my heart sensed her spirit still remains. Stirring those ashes into the soil was our way of returning her life to the place she loved and to our family she gave everything she had for.
Rain fell lightly, and then the sun pierced through the cloud bank. A rainbow stretched across the length of my sanctuary. As I photographed its arc gleaming through the oaks, I looked up and saw a small plane crossing directly through the rainbow — a fleeting scene of human flight intersecting divine color.
Graced by that rainbow seemingly set between my property lines, I turned back toward the sun. Rain still fell, soft and backlit, like floating glass. I noticed then two robins — one on the ground, pulling worms from the saturated soil, and another high in the basswood tree. The second bird dove downward, landing on the head of the five‑foot‑tall, multicolored metal rooster that faces the willow tree.
For a breath‑stealing instant, the airborne robin turned white in the light — then shimmered into its own rainbow. I recorded the entire moment, the colors shifting like a living prayer. The ordinary and the divine shared that same moment, joined beneath a sky that held both rain and promise.
That image — together with my 2011 bloodroot photograph and the full rainbow sequence from today — will appear in my upcoming book, tying together decades of observation, grief, and renewal.
As I watched, the verse came to me: Jesus said to His disciples, “I must go now so the Holy Spirit can come.” (John 16:7, KJV). In that instant, the robin seemed to embody that truth — as if heaven itself reached through color and air to remind me that the Spirit remains, transforming sorrow into light.
I know the plans God has given me, and I’ve learned that every promise unfolds in His timing, not mine. I waited fifteen years for today’s message — one that arrived through rain, light, and flight. In a world where many step away from faith, I stand humbly as one believer still listening, still learning how to share His love through His creation.
Watch the moment:
A robin drops from the bass tree growing next to Future Willow Pond, turning white in the light before settling on the rooster’s head.
Three seconds of grace — a robin becomes a dove, mirroring itself within the Easter rainbow’s doubled promise.
Amen.
— Lisa Loucks‑Christenson, Rochester Sun Times News
About the Author
Lisa Loucks-Christenson has spent more than two decades exploring angelic and supernatural encounters through recorded interviews and firsthand testimony. She has documented over 70 accounts from people who believed they encountered angels, messengers, communicators, and animals. Ordained in 2013, she continues theological study alongside advanced journalism, legal, policing, wildlife behavior, science, and conservation coursework, with a Th.D. as a long-term goal.