Apparently it’s Easter…

cutebunnyDon’t ask me how. Don’t ask me how it’s the last day of term tomorrow. A term that can be consigned to the rubbish bin of rubbish terms. Don’t ask me how we still all have colds and illness and weary tired bodies. Son1’s regular complaint this week, apart from ‘I want my Daddy’, is ‘I’m tired Mummy.’ I know how he feels. On both counts.

Weariness aside, it is apparently Easter. Tomorrow evening we will welcome people into our home to remind ourselves of the upper room all those years ago when Jesus came and washed his friends feet, ate bread, drank wine and prepared to face the most hideous death of all time. Cut off from life. Cut off from his Father and from the Spirit for the first time ever. 

Friday we will walk up to the top of the Downs with friends and remind ourselves of the hill Jesus died on. We will stop and be still and try and explain from the oldest to the smallest why on this day it is ok to be sad happy. Why it is good to remember darkness, a cup and a curtain torn in two.

Saturday will be a day like any other, with the background awareness of that bleak, dark, empty Saturday 2000 years ago as creation held it’s breath waiting for the impossible. On Saturday we will taste the sadness of all our Easter Saturday’s, the suffering world we live in, the weary days we wonder if hope will come, the pain of this sad, broken, hurting world.

On Sunday we will rise early and rejoice. We will breathe in and out and eat amazing food and stuff chocolate eggs into our mouths with hearts bursting with news of hope, joy and the impossible coming true. The tomb is empty. Death is defeated. We can live forever with our King. We can be raised. This world will be raised. New life has come and nothing can defeat the empty grave, the folded clothes, the man who came and ate breakfast and invites us to come and do the same.

I’ve always loved Easter more than Christmas. And I really love Christmas. Easter though, doesn’t have the same trappings, there is no fuel for my greed and dissatisfaction with my lot in life. There is only wonder at a man dying so I can live. A man dying so death could end, so this world could be free, so our lives could be lived with hope. A man dying so I can forgive and be forgiven. A man dying so my bad choices, the ways I hurt others and the ways they hurt me, could be dealt with. A man dying so I can walk with head held high despite it all. There is wonder at the impossible coming true. A risen man. A risen historical man that we can’t explain away. There is wonder at all the implications of that risen man. There is delight in the simplicity of his call to come and eat breakfast with him.

As a child and teenager I loved the depths of Easter, the solemnity of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday. I loved the idea of meditating for three hours at the cross. I loved the crazy Easter praise party our evening service would be and our Vicar’s insanely joyful organ solo’s in the middle of Thine Be the Glory. (full band and an organ is still clearly the best way to sing that song…).

As a grown up I find myself seeking that depth again. I long for my boys to know more and more of the wonder of Easter each year. This year we are opening eggs each day telling more of the story of the cross. Each day we face difficult conversations about the sadness and pain Jesus endured. Each day I read through our beautiful Easter book ‘The Garden, The Curtain and the Cross’ and son1 notices more and more of the story. Each day I am reminded of how much I need the cross as my patience fails, as our tired weary big emotions clash and we demand apologies from each other. As I pull son1 close in for a sorry cuddle once again I see our desperate need for forgiveness and grace that the cross brings.

Apparently it is Easter. Through the tired haze of life I long to remember all that Easter is and has brought. I long to sit and recall the wonder of it all. Fancy joining me?

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I,
That for my sake
My Lord should take
Frail flesh, and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know:
But oh, my Friend,
My Friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!”
Is all their breath,
And for His death
They thirst and cry.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they save,
The Prince of life they slay.
Yet cheerful He
To suffering goes,
That He His foes
From thence might free.

In life, no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death, no friendly tomb,
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say?
Heav’n was His home;
But mine the tomb
Wherein He lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
no story so divine:
never was love, dear King,
never was grief like thine.
This is my friend,
in whose sweet praise
I all my days
could gladly spend.

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