Easter Weekend. It is filled with mystery and intrigue. It is filled with sadness, fear, and joy. It is the best and worst of what it means to be Christian. It is a great metaphor to understand. I believe that we all have death and resurrections through our entire lives. There are some monumental ones like marriage, birth of a child, divorce. There are some small ones, ham on rye, stop lights, toenail fungus. As we frolick along in our metaphorical week, we go to work, pay the bills, eat dinner, watch reality shows on TV. It is just life afterall. Inevitably, Friday arrives. Friday is that point when everything changes. It can be good, it can be bad, it can be tragic. It will happen. regardless of world view: we are in a fallen world or Poop happens. Either way–it will happen. After we get over the initial impact, we enter into a Saturday experience. I call this ‘tomb time.’ All I mean is that it is a time we feel isolated and in the dark. We are alone and nursing our wounds. Maybe we are smiling at Peter, or ruminating about Judas. Regardless, we are working through the changes from who we were to who we are becoming. We are cocooned. There are many times we get stuck in the process of grief and don’t get through the Saturday experience. We deny, block, forget, and ignore. Sooner or later, we will have to work through it to emerge on Sunday, resurrected.
Remember as a kid getting up early on a Saturday to watch cartoons. I used to think about getting up early because it made the day longer. Saturday was glorious. No school, no homework. It was freedom to not do anything. I think that God wants us to do some of nothing after we experience a Friday. I think He wants us to sit and rest, to BE instead of DO. Sit back, catch your breath, then heal and embrace new life.
I have been stuck in this Saturday. I didn’t even know it. I was not always the best kid and got into trouble frequently. In one instance I got caught smoking and stealing. My mom said, “Well just wait until your father gets home.” I got doubly punished, grounded and spanked. I didn’t know it then or for 35 years after that, but it left an imprint on my heart. It was at that point that I lost the ability to fully trust people that said they loved me. I felt betrayed by my mother for telling my father. I felt dismissed by my Dad as he laughingly showed me his bruised hand telling me how I hurt him back. I remember trying hard not to apologize about his hand, and the shame that I did so anyway.
I uncovered this scar on a journey into my heart and soul recently. I am fascinated to see it spelled out how I have reset this scenerio in differing degrees throughout my life. How my search for trust has been in an untrusting way. How I felt the need to be bigger and better, smarter and funnier, than anyone around me.
I have understood the Friday of that little boy. I have started the Saturday. I rested. I am. I caught my breath. I will heal, I will emerge, resurrected.