Day 46: Home

 

This isn't a usual Good Friday post.  

It wasn't a usual Good Friday. It was a strange but Holy week.  God has been teaching me.  Walking with me in unusual ways, in unusual places. And the familiar story has become new again. 

It's been a rigorous schedule at break neck pace.  Intentionally set up that way to keep young people from getting bored and getting into trouble. But as we've gone along,  I've gone some deep places and my mind and heart are tired. 

We pulled up to the air and space Museum. It last museum before heading home. I readied myself for one last rally.  But when I looked over,  Andrew was done. He has decided to sit with me on the bus instead of his friends, which was the first sign.  But,  I could see it in his eyes, we had crossed the line; it was too much. He needed me to mother him.  He loved the trip but it was too many days with too many people on too fast a schedule.  

Instead of touring the museum,  we went down to the cafe and I got him a snack and we sat on the floor in a quiet corner. 

He was ready to go home.  I was ready to home and judging from texts my husband has been sending,  home was more than ready for us to be there. 

Some times we just know the time has come. It's time to go home.  We could try to fit in one more thing. 

But no... it's time. 

Its just time. 

The capitol building has a crypt, an empty tomb, for George Washington. But the tomb is empty. George wanted to go home.  

I strolled the gentle lands of Mt Vernon. It was a place that felt like home. I saw the bed where he died.  I stood at his tomb.  It was easy to feel the yearning to return that Washington must have felt. The whole property had the feeling of home. Like going to grandma's farm.  And the yearning he had to return to it, is the yearning I feel now. It's just time. 

Going home was one of Washington's gifts to the country. The humility to trust others with unfinished work.  

It was the remarkable thing about Jesus too.

Crowds had gathered to try to make him a king. But he knew they needed something greater.  He traded divinity for vulnerability, glory for a crown of thorns, and walked the way of the cross. And then, he went home.  

In the end,  we all go home.  To the place where we are loved and cherished. Warm kitchens and soft sunsets.  Breezes and the smell of good food. Comfy clothes and the abilty to be our full authentic selves.  

It is lovely and perhaps romantic to think of George Washington going home or Jesus going to a golden throne in heaven. But there were real consequences to leaving unfinished work. 

They left a void.  

A hot mess that people had to stand up to fill. The newly minted United States was full of fractions, contradictions and inconsistencies. It was such a mess that it went war with itself in barely a generation. Still in infancy in the lifespan of a country. 

Jesus left a scared band of  disciples cowering in the upper room. A chosen people fractured by his presence and an uncertain future for the people who followed him.  

There are a lot of things that I find difficult to let go of. Who would raise my kids if i were not there to do it? What would happen to my Sunday school? My job? People I help to take care of? 

I spend a lot of time thinking about what i might help.  How I might be the hands and feet of God in the world. But there has been, and will be moments when God will call me to lay down unfinished work.  That is hard. That is a deep trust that God will work in unfinished work,  even if it looks like a mess. 

In that way, going home may be a much of an act of risk and courage and faith as picking up the call. I honestly don't know which is harder. 

Can I pick up my cross and follow Jesus?

Can I set it down again if God asks me to?

As I sit on my plane heading west, ready to sleep in my own bed and snuggle my babies.  Jesus speaks to me from the cross.  

It. Is. Finished. 

The work is already done. 

The cross declares loudly, eternally,  the love of God conquers all things,  in all time, for all people. 

We all get to go home at the end of the day. And the work too, will be finished. 

And that will be best of all.  

Day 45: An early Easter vigil

A hard smooth stone sealed the tomb.  A guard, erect and to attention guards it. A cool gentle mist settles in the surrounding garden.

The loud crashing violence gave way to calm eternal silence. Death is still. Irreversible.  

The kids sat on the cold steps for 30 minutes in silence.  The only sound was the clicking of heels as the guard turned a corner. The tomb was a simple but beautiful.  White marble engraved, "Here rests in honored glory,  an unknown American soldier known but to God. "

The pacing of the soldier created space for meditation.  My mind drifted to a different tomb,  gaurded by a different soldier,  in a different garden with the same holy,  eternal silence.  The sounds of violence left behind to the stillness of death. 

The unknown soldier.  Honored by ceremony.  

The broken Savoir cradled by women brave enough to bear witness to his suffering. 

Then I thought of the giant pile of shoes at the holocaust museum. Bags of hair from shaved heads used to stuff mattresses.   Bodies thrown unceremoniously into mass graves. They too had much in common with Jesus.  

Clothes stolen by strangers ready to profit off of state sanctioned violence. Innocent lives taken because their very existence was a threat. 

I sat with these three graves all day. My own early Easter vigil.  

All the tombs were silent. All the tombs bore witness to the horror of violence.  All the tombs known and beloved by God.

I was pulled from my mediation by the changing of the guard. I watched the path of the guards as they changed places.  It was so perfectly walked that each path was etched into the cement below then. The movements automatic,  precise as guns moved in unison.  Feet moved in unison.  The laying of the wreath.  A large crowd has gathered in this sacred cemetery to witness and participate in a ritual to remember sacrifice. In unison we placed our hands on our hearts as the sad and beautiful blowing of taps echoed in the valley below. 

I followed the kids as we left in silence. We loaded up into the bus and headed to the national cathedral. It was a massive building. As we entered, we were greeted by a large beautiful copper bowl filled with water.  The group moved into the tour. 

I.... had to stay a moment at the water.  

I dipped in my fingers.  I felt the water.  My mind flooded with stories.  The stories of redemption we tell on Easter vigil.  I raised the water to my brow and formed a cross. A ritual we do to remember the sacrifice.  

The rememberance of baptism is my favorite part of the Easter vigil service. It falls in the middle place.  On the one side,  the darkness and finality of death.  On the other, the joy and hope of resurrection.  We are baptized into both. We are called to carry both. The sacrifice of the cross and the infallible hope of resurrection.  

In that moment,  with my fingers in that water,  the sparkling stained glass windows ahead of me and the silent tombs in my heart,  I stood in the cross road. 

This week we tell familiar stories.  We participate in familiar but sacred rituals. We remember bread and wine,  a broken body,  the still garden. We put our hands in the water. We play "were you there. " We slam the book.  The traditions etched in our hearts as deeply as the sidewalk under those soldiers' feet.  The movements remind us, draw us and call us into a deeper trust in those baptismal waters. 

Waters that save us. Waters that give us courage to follow Christ and carry our own crosses. 

May you be blessed in these holy days. Make space for the story.  For the stations or even just for a moment with the water. You are known. You are beloved and there is no where you can go where God won't be with you.  

Day 44: Roller-coaster day

I girded my loins. 

Holocaust museum was the second stop on our itinerary.  

We started the day with a soft sun rolling on the gentle hills on Mount Vernon. I strolled the ground. Andrew stole my phone and took pictures. My heart was at rest.  

I mediated on how George Washington's greatest work was to step away from work and return home to rest in the gentle retreat of his lovely farm. 

I had a beautiful post spun up in my mind about trusting God with our work and listening to the call to set it down. A call to humility but also a call to rest,  to joy and to those things we love best of all.  

But we got back on the bus and I steeled myself for the stop ahead. 

I stopped watching Holocaust movies just before I started having kids. I often lost sleep for weeks when I saw one. This,  I thought,  might be harder. 

But Andrew was with me.  So I needed to be a parent first. 

The experience is really well done.  It is a story told fully.  Even in the way you move through it. I walked with Andrew.  He didn't back down. He watched the videos and looked at the pictures and read the captions. 

I thought I would feel despair or overwhelm at the magnitude of the horror.  I found myself angry. Angry at a boatful of Jews that tried to come to America and were turned away by the coast guard because we didn't want immigrants. Angry at a conference of nations that gathered to identify refuge for jews who needed it, but none was found. Angry at headlines in American newspapers that recognized there was a problem and debates about whether or not to bomb the gas chambers at Auchwitz. 

Angry at the magnitude of the attrocity. 

And I had a glimpse into the wrath of God. 

A wrath that wells up from a deep sadness when as a parent you see your children doing something gravely self destructive. 

I held my anger and sadness as I got back on the bus. Here we are,  in holy week, in the darkest part of the story. 

I felt like I had just watched the crucifixion.  It wasn't nails that held Jesus to that cross. 

I flipped open my phone to post a few of Andrew's mount Vernon pics to Instagram and I saw a post about the crucifixion.  Bold letters. 

"REJECTED AND ALONE" 

But when I swiped left. It was a series of images with captions that reminded me. Jesus wasn't alone. The women were there. The women stayed. They held love that didn't look away.  

And my whole thought changed. It is an act of love to witness suffering and not back down even if there is nothing you can do. 

There is human suffering now.  Could I have courage to not avert my eyes? Is that an act of love?

The day moved on as discomfort settled in my belly.  It's holy week.  It's uncomfortable.  I let it sit. 

We spent the rest of the day on lighter subjects. We went to the natural history museum.  Andrew and his friends looked at rocks for an hour.  We ate dinner. We sat at the Jefferson memorial watching lightning roll across the sky behind the Washington monument. It was warm and breezy. The kids were content and we all shared a beautiful moment. 

We loaded back into the bus just after 8:30 and the teachers played an April fools joke on the kids. There were belly laughs. We got back to our rooms and the kids gathered in the hallway. They were hungry for togetherness. Someone started a pushup competition as a way to "wear themselves out. "

Curled up against the wall in the middle of the fray was the darling 8th teacher. Tired but deeply happy.  She sat and bore witness to joy. 

It was like a moment at a family reunion. After all the formal dinners and conversations. When shoes are off and all that's left is togetherness.   

That is love too. 

Love bears witness to suffering.  

Love also bears witness to joy. 

The women who buried him,  were also the first the witness resurrection. 

May love grant us courage to witness our siblings who suffer.  And may love grant us a yearning for togetherness that births spontaneous joy.  

Day 43: Restored

Andrew has to do a project about what part of the trip is his favorite and why. So he's having me take his picture at every stop just in case it turns out to be his favorite. 

We started out at MLK memorial. Then walked to FDR. Then on to Jefferson. 

At each stop, Andrew and I played a game. We read each quote and tried to name the historical context.  Then he picked his favorite quote from each person and I took his picture with it. 

For MLK, he chose:

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience,  but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. "

The quote stayed with me as we continued to walk,  read and reflect on 250 years of our nation's history. What decisions we collectively made as a nation in times of challenge and controversy.  There were moments of moral courage.  And moments where the easy road was taken. Moments of living up to the ideals of our nation and moments of failing to. 

As I thought about what I might write for the blog tonight.  I thought about the palm Sunday parade.  The cries of hosanna turned to cries for crucifixion. 

It was a time where people wanted Jesus as a king. They wanted the kingdom he preached.  But in the moment of challenge, they could not stand up for it. 

Peter, so sure he was ready to die with Jesus,  denied having anything to do with him. 

And Jesus,  knowing humanity wasn't ready for his kingdom, laid down his life to pave the path to it. 

God meets us in our moral failure. 

And holds us and points us towards courage. 

The is a grace wide enough for Peter and the crowd that shouted crucify him. Wide enough for slave holders and residential school teachers. Wide enough to lift us up out of moral failure. 

Jesus taught repentance.  

And he taught forgiveness. 

Even in his last breaths. 

He invites us to turn away from the self interested easy road. 

He invites us to release ourselves from bitterness against those who wrong us. Even those who seek to destroy us. 

He invited us even as he hung on a cross. 

He restored Peter.  

He restores us all. 

Day 42: Stay up with me

 It sounded like a cat was dying outside my window. I glanced at the clock 1:58am. My alarm was set for 4am.

I rolled over and tried to back to sleep.  

But I was awake.  

The lament of the previous day louder in my head. Grief for the church.  Grief for the world.  A merry-go-round of ideas of tiny things I could do. Wondering if I should do any of them.  

I prayed. 

I tried to let it go.  But sleep would not come. 

Eventually Zander meandered into the room. I welcomed the snuggle. 

Morning came much before I was ready.  And it was a dash. Last minute items to pack.  Jump in the car.  Hop on the bus. Ride to the airport.  Flu across the country. Eat dinner.  Tour cherry trees and monuments. Walking with a full belly in the evening breeze. Sleep finally starts to come for me.  My back feeling the strain of a day like today. Ibuprofen on the way to the hotel.  Write my blog before we arrive so bed can find me. 

Jesus spent his last living day like this.  Busy with a holiday.  Running around and then the quiet of the night, the heaviness of the road ahead.  No sleep found him. Arrested at the end of an all-nighter. Tried. Abused. Made to carry his cross. Exhausted. Nailed.  Sleep did not find him. The pain was too much. 

I will be grateful for a soft bed in a quiet room.  But sometimes... God speaks when sleep doesn't find us. Being up at night with our hearts is sometimes a sacred liturgy. May we be open to hear God's voice even if it finds us in the middle of the night. 

Day 41: Palm Sunday Blues

I have the strongest feeling of melancholy.  I've been feeling it all day. 

Palm Sunday is one of my favorite services. Not quite as good as Easter vigil,  but maybe a close second. The colors. The joy.  The hosannas. The passion.  

In Sunday school,  we made communion bread. We went all the way back to passover. The bread of haste.  The bread and wine of freedom.  The cup of praise. 

"This is my body. "

We look at pictures of Jesus life. 

Baby Jesus at Christmas

The boy lost in the temple. 

Jesus baptism with his cousin and the dove. 

The sermon on the mount.  

The healing of the blind man.  

And the donkey,  coming to Jerusalem.  On his way to celebrate freedom with his friends. He tries to teach them about a new freedom. They don't really get it. 

The journey into the garden. The tears. The sweat.  The sleeping disciples. The guards.  The Sanhedren.  

This is where it got complicated for Sunday school.  

Charges to lying and overthrowing the government. Lies saying Jesus did things he didn't do. Angry people.  Mistreatment.  And he stayed calm.  They killed him. They hastily put him in a cave.  

Nothing happened. No one did anything but cry.  It was Sabbath.  They weren't allowed to have a funeral. So the women waited to say goodbye to Jesus.  

It was Sunday school.  I couldn't leave it there.  We had to go to Easter. 

The women crept out early in the morning as soon as Sabbath had passed. But something was wrong.  The heavy stone was moved.  The garden seemed empty. They were afraid some other terrible thing had happened. But then...  they saw him. Jesus was there.  Alive.  

And next week.  Church is going to be one big party!

The kids were somber. They carried small loaves of bread to the pastor. She blessed it.  We all ate that bread of freedom.  

I get so much joy watching them.  Helping them learn the faith,  the stories that sustain me.  It is hard to really teach it. There's so much more that comes after Sunday school.  

My heart so full of joy also held sorrow. Sorrow for our world,  still not free. Sorrow for the church.  Sorrow for the lack of support these kids might not have as their faith grows. Sorrow I have not been able to shake all day. 

After church,  I played music with Philip.  He jammed on the drum kit in the sanctuary whole I was on the grand piano.  Then we traded. My heart was joyful. His gift and love of music. The freedom to be playful,  make mistakes, make noise.  But the sorrow followed me.  

We went to lunch as a family. The boys were cracking jokes. We saw old friends at the restaurant. It was a joy to see them. It was a joy to watch the boys be brothers. They love each other.  It makes me so happy.  But that darn sorrow never left. 

In the midst of the joyful parade. People shouting for Jesus to save them.  The sorrow hung in his eyes. 

I feel the sorrow today. The sorrow of things not yet here and still to come. But I choose faith and hope and love.  Jesus chose these even in his sorrow. 

The story has started. May I have ears to hear it again.  

Day 40: Looking forward

 

I can't wait for spring break. 

I've been trying to figure out what we are going to do.  The tricky part is Eddie has a different spring break. His is next week. All the rest of the kids are off the following week. Eddie has calculus on Tuesday and Thursday. He can't really miss.  We can't really go on a trip without him.  

So I've been bummed. Im ready for a break. More than ready.  

I remember two years ago we left from Easter church to start our spring break,  an RV trip to Texas to watch the solar eclipse.  I happily handed out Kindle fires to every kid and scrolled Instagram while sipping a diet coke.  It was GLORIOUS! 

No RV trip this year. We need to do maintenence work on it. We might rent out an Airbnb for a day or two and pull out the rv to work on it. Or maybe,  I'll let the kids play video games while I garden for a week. That sounds tempting. 

The unfolding of possibility is at the center of hope. Hope and faith co-mingle in the potential of a joyful future.  What is heaven like? No idea,  but the unfolding of possibility-- like my spring break -- creates joyful anticipation.  Maybe we'll have bodies,  fully healed,  fully whole,  resurrected and perfect in God's image. Or maybe we'll be free from bodies able to exist purely as spirit. There's a lot of theology about this -- but it's a mystery.  A beautiful holy mystery.  

Lent for me is usually a season of doubt and uncertainty.  One of yearning and seeking. 

Easter is a Polaroid picture. 

Usually faint at first,  but slowly coming into view, and by Pentecost I'm plunged in to the new life and work that God has shown me. Reflection gives way to action. Yearning finds satisfaction. 

Not always.  Im not just reflective during Lent.  But the church calendar,  like the secular calendar leaves a mark on my rhythm.  The thoughts that began a seeds during new year,  sprout and grow during Lent when I intentionally carve out space to sit with them. 

But Easter comes and life floods back in and all the activity I push off during Lent (to create space for reflection) fills my calendar. And in the renewed activity,  dots start to connect and often I can see the hand of God at work,  drawing me in to help.  

I am still in Lent. I don't know what lovely encounter I might have with God during the Easter season,  but I trust it is out there. And I'm looking forward to it. 

We don't go around the cross to get to Easter. We go through it. We don't go around the pain to be healed. We are healed in it. But hope is what we hold while we're going through it. God is with me. God is at work here and on the other side,  there's something amazing. Hold on.  We're almost there.