Easter

I had planned to do something in our home for Lent this year, but when Ash Wednesday came around I just couldn't.  So maybe we'll do something for Lent next year, but maybe not for several years.  In my head I know and believe the glory of Christ's resurrection far, far exceeds beyond description my pain and grief, but pain and grief were my primary feelings all throughout the Lenten season.  Last year Holy Week began with Oliver's birthday, followed the next day with news of his advanced kidney failure, and ended with his gentle bodily death.  He was at peace and we were in shock.  This year was complicated by the anticipation of the anniversary day, the shallows of everyday life, and the depths of memories, but it lacked the shock protecting us from the full force of it all.  I felt guilty and ashamed for not even wanting to celebrate the pinnacle of the Christian year.  Eventually, thankfully, instead of forcing tradition or expectation I felt a freedom from God to just wait and watch for something from him that would help me make make sense of it all, at least for this season, for now.

And I watched, and I waited.

When Palm Sunday came around I decided I still wanted to do something, especially for the girls, to walk through Holy Week, so I came up with little table decorations of vintage robin cutouts with nests and eggs.  I love the robin song that wakes me early in the morning - so cheery and welcoming of the new day.  The greenery and eggs reminded me of the parts of the traditional Passover meal of the bitter greens of remembering and the egg representing new life.  

The nests started empty but I added eggs each morning throughout the week as a surprise for the girls.  (On a side note, the girls were at first completely astonished when I popped one of the little eggs in my mouth - they thought the eggs were plastic but were delighted to discover that they were malted candy eggs!  We also tried some egg dying just for fun too.)

Even with these activities it all felt somewhat hollow, so I kept waiting and watching.  Good Friday and that Saturday were very dark days for both Joel and I.  We grieved hard and deep.  We talked with the girls about what we were feeling and thinking - the mixture of grief and joy.  They responded with as much understanding as they have - Elsa drew a card of me happily holding Oliver without any wires or sensors attached and inside a big heart, and Nora offered us her special blanket and pooh-bear for comfort.  

Finally, finally, on Saturday afternoon I was reading, having given up on finding an understanding of Easter this year, and there was this quote from George MacDonald in the liner of my book:

The Son of God suffered unto the death,
not that men might not suffer, but that their
sufferings might be like His. (Unspoken Sermons, First Series) 

Suddenly Easter shifted from feeling like a hollow celebration to being a rich reminder of Christ's presence and purpose in my pain.  Instead of trying to convince me out of my suffering Jesus sits with me right there in it, weeps with me, and then through his tears offers me the same hope of resurrection and redemption that he embodied on Easter morning.  And in that context I could celebrate Easter this year.

So Easter morning went OK for us this year, perhaps especially because we had it all out the day before.  We were blessed by so many people saying that they were remembering Oliver too, and could actually enjoyed the Easter brunch potluck at our church.  Mostly I was thankful for Goerge MacDonald's quote that acted as a healing salve to my soul.  It came in the nick of time.

God is never early, and he is never late.  He is always right on time.  And when he tells me to wait I don't like it and I doubt him but he proves his trustworthiness again and again.