Easter Observation

Tonight I listened to William say his prayer.  He was reluctant to pray at all.  He said, 

"Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross to forgive us for our sins."

Every "r" came out as a "w".  Then he sighed. 

"That's all, I don't know what to say next!" he explained in tired exasperation. 

I smiled at the floor while Josh explained to him that prayer is our chance to talk to God, that especially today, on Easter, we need to participate.  William started over, said again, 

"Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross to forgive us for our sins,"

added one more sentence for posterity, and then fell asleep quickly. 

As I listened to him pray, get disgruntled about praying, and then try again, I smiled to myself because of how perfectly he was echoing my own feelings at the time.  

Today has been a dreary Easter Sunday.  Josh and I were up for most of the night with a sick Sam, spent the morning apart as I went to church without the fellas, and then the afternoon apart as he took the big boys to lunch with the grandparents while I snoozed on the couch with our littlest.  I have picked up the computer three times to blog about the impact Easter has on my redeemed heart, and each time I have closed it in somber irritation at the fact that I just can't get at the joy of this holiday.  The rain has softly dotted the yard all day, the clouds have hovered low over our city, and I have felt as heavy as soaked denim. 

Last night we read the children the story of the crucifixion.  In years past they have relished this story, have wanted to read and re-read it, have asked questions about how the Roman soldiers were armed, how they hurt Jesus, and what they would like to do to the soldiers in vindication.  Truthfully, I used to cringe at their questions and silently wish to silence their fascination with the story of the cross.  Over time I have come to appreciate their dissection of Good Friday and have learned a lot about my own faith while listening to them drink in the truth of what Jesus had suffered. 

Last night, however, they wanted to move on.  When we finished the story of the crucifixion William asked repeatedly to read the story of the stone being rolled back and the ladies who went there.  He wanted the story to be finished.  He wanted to hear the happy ending.  He wanted Jesus to rise from the grave.  This morning, before I went to church, before the day had fully begun, Jonathan offered to read the story of the resurrection to his brothers.  He couldn't wait!  They sat on the couch and read together the story of Easter. 

I am learning from my children how to grapple with the reality of being human and how to claw at truth, to chase goodness, and to seek the simple yet profound fact of Jesus being IT.  

William's prayer tonight is my prayer today.  When all is said and done and the Easter Sunday trappings weren't exactly as planned, I thank my Jesus for dying on the cross to save me.  When I am tired and disgruntled I thank him for being my Savior, and I put away any more fanciful words. 

Furthermore, the story my boys craved is the story I long to hear.  Again and again.  I want to hear about Jesus rising.  I want to be told that He came out of that tomb.  I crave to remember how the women discovered him absent.  Absent from death, absent from the tomb, absent from the oppression of sin. 

I have been pondering the emotions of Mary lately; how she must have suffered when Jesus went missing for three days at the age of twelve.  I wonder what pole vaults her heart did when she found him and asked him, 

"Son, why have you treated us like this?  Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you." 

It has occurred to me that his next words must have reverberated through her life and her mind.

"Why were you searching for me? Didn't you know I had to be in my Father's house?"

I wonder, when Mary heard that her son's body was no longer in the tomb, if she recalled these words of his.  I wonder if it occurred to her that her son was on his way to his Father's house.  

Sometimes I expect a day, such as this Sunday on my calendar, or a moment that is packed with holy ceremony, to encapsulate my relationship with Jesus.  I want, each Easter, to be overwhelmed by the joy of the rising.  I want Him to be caught in Easter Sunday like a wintry scene trapped in a snow globe.   In thinking that a day can contain the wide mystery of my LORD's resurrection I find that I am cheapening the miracle.  

Today has not been pretty.  We did not all end up in our Easter outfits.  Yet, and here is the crux of it, we told the story.  We read it to each other.  We remembered the truth.  We accept the gift of Jesus ascending to his Father. 

Our Father. 

The Joy that is knowing Jesus can no more be caught in a day than the wind can be caught in the trees.  The joy is Jesus.  While I am trying to make Easter pretty, Jesus is clearing out the need for it to be.  While I am wishing for sunny skies, He is owning the rain.  As I regret the mess, He is entering it.  He is in his Father's house.  If ever I am at a loss to find the peace and joy that Easter represents, I have only to look at the throne at the right hand of God. 

Jesus said, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.  Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'"  

Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!"  and she told them that he had said these things to her. 

John 20:17-18