Easter

Easter. It snuck up on me this year like daylight savings, springing time forward before I was ready. Bunnies, chocolates and all things soft and fluffy crept into Target before the daffodils were blooming. The rain kept pelting against our house and the wind hallowing, uprooting the juniper trees in my planters like spring was an abstract painting. Dark days turned into dark nights. Somehow, it all just didn’t seem quite right. It didn’t seem like the day was coming where we would finally celebrate our reason for hope.

Still, it kept coming.

First there was Lent. Then Palm Sunday. Then Bible study discussions centered on celebrating the rolling back of the grave. Then there were Easter baskets. And pre-Easter day Easter egg hunts. Then Easter morning. I woke up with the strains “He arose, He arose, Halleluiah Christ arose” filling my mind. They were beautiful, lovely strains. Finally, it seemed as if the day was coming.

But, two hours later I walked into church 20 minutes late with a tear-stained toddler clinging to my arm asking if we could go back home. Something about her tights and shoes kept prompting fresh tears. I spent the majority of the remaining service nursing my four-month old in the “Mothers & Babies” room, gently gliding back and forth, trying to catch snippets of the sermon, prompting my mind and heart to sing the beautiful words from earlier in the morning. We left church and went to my parent’s house. We celebrated the resurrection of our King with family. We ate food. The children hunted for eggs. It was a melodious, bittersweet day. It was filled with rain storms and pockets of sun, tears and laughter, celebration and sorrow. Then it was over, springing time forward once again before I was ready. It didn’t seem quite right. It didn’t seem like the day had come when we had celebrated our reason for hope.

         Still, it had come. Just as it had come two years ago on Easter.

On that day we had also walked in late. Emmarie had also been crying when we dropped her off in the children’s department. Something big I can’t remember kept prompting fresh tears. We opened the doors to the sanctuary quietly and scooted into the only open chairs we could find, thankful they were near the back. We sat down. As my mind quieted, our pastor began to blur into a haze beneath my tears. My hand was firmly placed on my stomach; firmly placed on my daughter in my womb who was dying. The pain was so fierce I didn’t know if I should leave church or stay. No one knew about Clara yet. The news was fresh, so raw. We couldn’t begin to put words to them. 

I looked down at my hands circling my belly. My stomach barely formed an oval beneath my floral dress. Tears began to drop into my lap, landing on my hands, on my stomach and on my unborn daughter. They were pouring down off my face as I mouthed the words with our church, “Death, where is your sting? Grave, where is your victory? He’s alive, He’s alive. He is risen!”

Death, where is your sting?

The words angered me as I sang them. The sting was deep. It was cutting. It was piercing. It was guttural. It was overwhelming my senses, filling them with an unfamiliar venom. What a ridiculous question. The sting is right here Lord, I cried. Do you not see it tearing me apart? Can you not feel it?

Grave, where is your victory?

How softly He used the words to answer back to my heart. It was as if He said gently to my soul this world will not be her home. The grave will not conquer her, as it did not conquer Me. I have overcome sin, I have overcome death. I am alive. I am risen. Her purpose will not be constrained by death. Neither was mine.

But, Lord. None of this seems right.

I began to sob out loud, my face buried in my hands. Weak and broken, I lay crumpled in my husband’s arms; a remnant of who I was once was.

No, none of it seemed right. It didn’t seem like the day would ever come when we would celebrate our reason for hope as we sat huddled together in the back of the church. It didn’t seem like it would come five months later when we watched our daughter take her last breath, or when we walked out of the hospital without her, or when we kept waking up to the morning light without her.

Still, it kept coming.

Every day our reason for hope kept coming. Jesus kept coming when we did not. Day after day, He kept showing up even though we did not see Him. Nothing you can do will separate you from my love, He whispered to me through verses I’d memorized as child. Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate you from my love. Push me, test me, wrestle with me. I already bore your sin on the cross, there is nothing I can’t handle.

Yes, Easter. A day. A quick, passing collection of minutes and hours. A day on a cross long ago, overshadowed by pastels and bunnies. A day where our reason for hope started coming and never stopped. It didn’t seem quite right then either. Still, it kept coming.