Easter 2020. My little family of three just bought a home and we are living in two places at once. It is Sunday (Easter) and we must be out of our rental Wednesday, but moving can’t happen until Tuesday because of schedules.
This is what COVID EASTER looked like for us:
-no dresses (even though I bought them)
-no baskets (even though they’re filled)
-no egg dying or hunts (tucked in Emerson’s unopened Easter basket packed in a box somewhere)
-no Easter candy (forgot to buy some for the grown-ups)
-no beautiful picture of our little family wishing everyone a happy Easter (paint in my hair and yoga pants on my bod)
No yellow flowers on the table, no stories about Easter (planned on it, but packed away), no place settings, nothing.
As I was rifling anxiously around a garage full of boxes stacked and stacked for the one that held Em’s Easter basket, my vision of my curated Easter was disintegrating before my eyes.
I felt like a failure. I failed. I couldn’t check any of my Easter boxes.
But guess what? Easter is not about those boxes.
It’s about the horrible Friday where Jesus was beaten and mocked and spit on and nailed to a cross. It’s about him calmly accepting imprisonment, choosing forgiveness over vengeance. It’s about the curtain being torn top to bottom, Heaven being brought down to me. And to you.
It’s about my sins holding him there. Your sins.
It’s also about the dark Saturday of waiting. Of wondering. Of suffering. Now and not yet. Where are you Lord? Are you who you say you are?
And then, glorious Sunday: Jesus is here.
Death has no sting! This earth is not all there is. He beckons us to think of Home with Him forever.
And, suddenly, my list doesn’t seem to matter so much anymore.