Game changer

Knowing how these extended holiday weekends shake out (very busy, lots of running and distractions), I thought I'd better jump on here now. Better early than absent, eh?

Everybody thinks Christmas is the big Christian holy day. But Christmas means nothing without the climax of the resurrection.

Don't let Easter Sunday slip by without watching this.

(I haven't a clue who's behind it—just stumbled upon it, and consequently was lifted and encouraged.)

Happy Easter to you!

Scrabbling for spring and clinging to hope

Here's my latest: Robbie Robin. I'm scrabbling for a toehold on springtime, and it's a slippery slope for sure when there's yet more snow falling outside and the heat continues to blast. Goodness, what a tenacious winter.

(Robbie's for sale in my Etsy shop.)

Even if the weather had turned lovely, it would have been a rough few weeks. Not personally, thank goodness—but for friends, former neighbors, church family...

There have been a number of deaths. None of them were a total shock; all involved illness, sometimes a long, drawn-out illness. But as far as I can see, that doesn't make the loss easier.

Yet, while the memorial service I attended yesterday was sad, so sad, it was also uplifting. The one who'd left this earth was painfully young. A lifelong health struggle had finally worn her down. But the celebration of her life was joyful in spite of tears. She had lived well, changed people for the better, and she isn't "lost," the pastor reminded us. We know exactly where she is and Whom she is with. And that made it bearable, even when I hugged the young lady's mother, a strong woman who had suffered with and now mourned her only child.

I am very glad to have that hope. I am praying that if you don't have it, you'll stop reading right now and call out to Jesus, have a little tête-à-tête with Him. It's Holy Week. He bled and died for you and me, so we could have eternal life. What better time to invite Him in and make Him your own savior?

I can say with truth I've never regretted letting Jesus into my heart; I only regret that I didn't do it sooner.

I wish you peace, blessings, health. And warm sunshine!

Signs of spring

Here's the latest painting: a hoppity little fellow. Easter's approach always connotes the images of bunnies for me, probably for most of us. After wondering about the origins of the tradition, I read somewhere that Easter's pagan beginnings had a sharp focus on fertility. Heck, what's a better example of that than rabbits? Hence the "Easter Bunny." Weird. The savior of the world was raised from the dead, and we hide eggs (more fertility symbols) and give credit to a long-eared, madly breeding furball.

I have seen a few bunnies scrambling frantically in my evening headlights of late. Guess they're starting to get bored in those burrows, too.

Anyway. The painting is for sale in my Etsy shop.

I'll resume muttering at the stubborn snow now.

Sunrise memories

My childhood worship place sat upon a tall, round hill surrounded by ridges and high meadows. It sits there still; my cousin was married at the church several years ago, and I was stunned to see how crowded the pews felt now, how dark was the interior. Was there really only one little bathroom? Around back, where many church dinners had been served out of the basement kitchen, the patio by the door didn't seem as spacious as I'd pictured it in my mind. Growing up ruins things sometimes.

But the view from outside the church? It was every bit as astounding and awe-inspiring as it had ever been.

The church is rather old, with a requisite cemetery situated next to it. Those graves stretch across the hilltop quite a ways and a small road runs through them. All around you, as far as you can see, are similar bluffs and high places, some distant buildings, a variety of fences, and occasional stock grazing; you feel atop the world. It's a perfect place for walking, for thinking, for simply pondering the awesomeness of our Creator. When you're alone, the only noise is the wind, which depending on the day could probably seem lonely or friendly. When you're there with others, voices are lost on the breeze, and it's necessary to speak up or shout when you're not near to the person you're addressing. It's a really peaceful place for pondering.

What I've been recalling about that church lately, though, is one particularly early morning attendance. The church used to feature a real "sunrise" service on Easter morning, and my family attended that sermon on several occasions.

We'd rise before daylight, and my sisters and I would first check our Easter baskets to make certain they held goodies, even sampling some sweets (always at least one bite more than we'd been granted!) Then we would don our Easter dresses, which had been laid out the night before or had hung temptingly in our closets for days. Over the pretty dresses went heavy jackets, of course; Easter weather is rarely warm, and churches perched on hilltops are colder still.

We'd climb into the family truckster, usually a station wagon, and off we'd ride, down our road and then upwards on twisting, sometimes lurching single lanes. At last, our stomachs turning from the drive, we'd see the red brick building rising up ahead of us, and we'd ascend the driveway to park with all the other simpletons who'd chosen the same pre-dawn path.

Easter was especially fun because the songs we sang that day were joyful and uplifting, which would not be my adjectives of choice to describe some of the more traditional hymns of a typical childhood service. Our church was stoic and serious, and the hymns could take on a dirge-like quality at times...or perhaps it only seemed that way to me, being young and easily bored. Two songs that were nearly always featured on Easter morning were "He Lives" and "Up from the Grave He Arose" (or at least I think those are the titles). We'd sing out the powerful phrases with increasing vigor, and by the time we got to the end, that little building was as close to rockin' as it would ever get:

Up from the grave He arose
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes!
He arose a victor from the dark domain
And He lives forever with His saints to reign!

(Another song that's stayed with me is "Rise Again," but I think that was mostly sung on Palm Sunday.)

Just as we were rounding out some verses celebrating our resurrected King, the stained glass windows in the church would begin to glow, and light would shine through them with steadily increasing strength. On a cloudy day, it still lit the place gently, but on a sunny day, those colorful, translucent images came to life.

Afterward always involved chatting, happy Easter wishes, a leisurely exit into the bright day. Sometimes the air would have warmed a bit, and heavy coats could be shed so that fancily clad kids could be admired and teased. Then homeward, for a once-a-year diet of candy and ham.

They are sweet memories, those early Easter mornings. It's still easiest for me to picture Jesus stepping out of that tomb when it's new morning and the air is chill, and especially when I'm singing about that incredible moment. I truly hope that this coming Sunday, Resurrection Sunday, will be a day of joy and gratitude for you. You know which songs will be playing in my heart.

This is why we need a savior

I’m becoming aware that, in my advancing age, I am growing less tolerant of people who will not assert themselves and rise above circumstances. I guess I should admit that I never was terribly good at dealing with that type of person anyway. I’ve always been the impatient person who doesn’t understand, the insensitive person who wants to grab folks by shoulders or bootstraps or whatever I can get hold of. I don’t comprehend fear of making plans with others, inactivity in the face of confusion, even hesitation in general.

And I need to. I really need to try. Not only because it would make me a better-rounded and wiser individual, but also because those same people of whom I am intolerant probably find me to be quite abrasive and harsh, too quick to act, not nearly meditative enough. And they’re every bit as right about me as I am about them.

We all fall short. All. We all hurt each other, fail each other, disappoint each other daily. We are most of us doing the best we can, but we are never going to rise regularly to the occasion of being all we should be. It’s just not in our nature; it’s not natural for us to be good. That’s how nature is manifested, right? Something that’s natural is simply being faithful to its true nature. Since our true nature is fallen and sinful, we are doomed never to measure up.

But guess what?! We don’t need to. Isn’t that awesome? Of course we keep trying, we keep asking for help, we keep on striving to be better and stronger and all that. But when we can’t do it (notice I said when, not if), we need only ask for forgiveness and receive it. New mercies every morning. Fresh grace bestowed upon request.

The only requirement is that your request be sincere, from your heart of hearts. And when you truly understand how fallen you are, we are, then how can your request be anything but absolutely sincere? When you get it, it’s easy to be humble and broken and prostrate before your Creator.

Romans 5:11
Not only is this so, but we also rejoice in God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received reconciliation.

Romans 6:23
For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:39
Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Happy Easter!

Comic relief

It’s hard to stay serious for too long when you hang out with a 4-year-old. Thank goodness. : )

You know you have a young boy in the house when Easter baskets, eggs, and bunnies emerge for the season and are summarily recruited for service in the EHL (Easter Hockey League). That’s what happened here a couple days ago.

Todd dug around in the attic until he uncovered the box of Easter goodies, and we pulled out the baskets, paper grass, plastic eggs, and multiple stuffed rabbits from post-Easter sales of yore. Some last-minute searching in the garage uncovered even more fun finds, including the tiny stuffed Peep Bunny and his buddy Beanie Polka-dot Peep Chick. In a matter of minutes, Marcus had discovered that the pastel eggs went flying when whacked with a hand, which in turn led to his “assisting” the bunnies (that’s proper hockey terminology, right?) as they whacked the eggs around the room. Further investigation revealed that the best pucks were comprised of slightly larger eggs that housed smaller ones inside (apparently, the added weight created more velocity, not the mention that the doubled eggs made a satisfying smacking sound as they impacted furniture, walls, etc.)

And that, my friends, is what you see in these photographs: stuffed Easter critters playing egg hockey (and a small duck sporting a football-turned-hockey helmet.) The blue bunny was exceptionally skilled at slapshots, but Peep Chick was a more-than-talented goalie. It was quite a start to the whole bunny season.

A season which, thankfully, is not about bunnies at all, but about our savior.

Now, get out there and fight! Fight! Fight!!!

Joy and deliverance

On Friday night, I went to the movies, right in the comfort of my own chilly basement. I watched "The Passion of the Christ" once again. I'd seen it in the theater when it first came out, and since then I'd been working up the nerve to see it again. I sat on the futon, alone, and I watched the events unfold on screen. And because I was alone, I was able to watch with utter abandon. I was permitted complete emotional expression, short of howling loudly enough to wake my son upstairs.

It was heart-wrenching. I sat there, sobbing, watching our Lord accept punishment that He didn't deserve. And yes, it was Mel Gibson's interpretation, and Mel has done and said some unholy things in his life...but by golly, he stuck to the story from the Bible pretty darned well. I couldn't tell myself that this was a good movie. It's a true story. It happened. I believe it, and the film would have been hard to watch even if I'd known it was totally fictional. It's not fiction.

I commend Mel for telling the bloody tale in a way that broke my heart, just as it should. It's one thing to read the words "crucify," and another altogether to grasp what a crucifixion entails. Thankfully, the ugliness of the crucifixion stands in stark contrast to the One who withstood it out of sheer love. Love we didn't earn, can never earn, can only receive and be humbled by.

The words below are from one my favorite church songs, a contemporary song called "In Christ Alone." I hope the words fill you with joy just as they do me.

***********

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
'Till on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied
For every sin on Him was laid
Here in the death of Christ I live

There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin's curse has lost it's grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Brought with the precious blood of Christ

No guilt in life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life's first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
'Till He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I'll stand

**********

Happy Resurrection Day to you.

Deep thoughts about Easter

Easter is fast approaching. It’s funny; for some reason, “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” got stuck in my head last week, and I was humming it. Marcus asked me what I was singing, which is nice, since sometimes he simply asks me to stop…and I was explaining the song, and singing the words for him. Then I felt bad because it’s such a stupid song. I mean, who can sing about a rabbit “hopping down the bunny trail” without feeling a bit foolish? And then I felt guilty because Todd and I really do want to rear a God-fearing, God-loving child and Easter is sort of the benchmark of the entire Christian faith—and here I was minimizing it by singing about some ridiculous phantom bunny.

So I tried to explain what Easter really is. I said, “Honey, Easter isn’t about a bunny at all. It’s about Jesus. Jesus died, but he came back to life on Easter and now He lives forever. Easter is a joyful time because Jesus is alive forever. We should sing a real Easter song.” And then I sang “He Lives” for the kid (well, I sang part of one verse because that was all I could remember—yeah, I stink). Not long after that, maybe the next day, I was absent-mindedly humming the stupid bunny song again and my sweet, wise son reminded me that Easter wasn’t about a bunny; it was about Jesus. So true. I agreed wholeheartedly and, quite literally, changed my tune.

But oh, out of the mouths of babes: a few days later as we were driving, my sweet boy asked me the following very tough question: “Mommy, why did God have Jesus?” I kid you not. This is what he asked me. I even had him repeat it to be certain, and then I said it back to him to be doubly sure. And that was honestly what he’d asked me. Now, how do you answer that? He’s going to be three years old next week. Three. How would you respond?

I tried. I said something like this: “Well, Honey, God made people. And when He made them, He gave them the ability to choose things. But we people didn’t make good choices; in fact, we chose a lot of really awful things. We made bad choices. And God was disappointed in us. So He sent Jesus, Who didn’t make any bad choices ever. And now since Jesus lives forever, He talks to God about us and helps God forgive us when we do bad things.” I know, horribly inadequate and terribly simplified, but he is still so little. I don’t want to overwhelm him with details, or with the truth about the suffering and crucifixion.

His reply? “Okay.” Which often sounds like “otay.” That was it; he hasn’t brought it up since. And yes, for all you people who are worried, he’ll still get an Easter basket. He’ll get plenty of sugar and cute things and eggs to find on Easter morning. But hopefully, he’ll remember this short little discussion in the car. My prayer is that he’ll be joyful not thanks to a sugar high, but because he has Jesus to talk to God about him. A 3-year-old may not need that intervention yet, but if he’s anything like the rest of us, he will. Oh, he will.

I pray the same prayer for myself: joy and gratitude all mixed up with a side of chocolate.