The place of your pain: An Easter Meditation

Throughout the Lenten season I've been viewing this upcoming Easter Sunday as a sort of magical day.   I've been hoping that when I wake up on Sunday morning, a sort of ephipany will come to me of God being triumphant over brokenness, sin, death, and throughout the whole day I'll be joyful in God's presence.  I've been anticipating that this Easter Sunday will be full of exultant and expectant hope for me.

But the closer it gets to Sunday, the more I realize that my expectations of the day may indeed fall quite short.  In fact, I may feel no different from today.  I may still feel cautious, hesitant, wary.  I may still be afraid to hope for better things, unsure of what even to hope.

I was thinking about this yesterday in the car when a thought came to me.  It has to do with the Easter story in Matthew 28, so I'm including it below.

"After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men. The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”      

So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them. “Greetings,” he said. They came to him, clasped his feet and worshiped him.”

I've been hoping that this Sunday I break free of my grief, joyfully celebrating the risen Savior, reveling in the implications of his resurrection.  I've been wanting to experience the glory of this day wholeheartedly. And yet I'm starting to realize that perhaps I can experience the wonders of the resurrection just as well in my current state of shock and sorrow.

In fact, celebrating Easter Sunday while filled with grief is rather fitting.  After all, Mary Magdelene and her friends were themselves weighed down with grief that first Easter morning.  They had put all their hope in Jesus being the Messiah.  Although they had been so sure that he was the one sent from God to save them all, they had just seen him brutally beaten and publicly crucified.  They had followed him for years, supporting him, watching him heal the sick, bring hope to the oppressed.  And now he's been killed.

I can imagine their grief, their devastation at his death, their disappointment.  I can see them walking to the tomb while carrying embalming ointments, readying themselves to see Jesus' body, riddled with wounds, one last time.  And yet they went anyway to the place of their pain.  They went to visit the place of their deepest disappointment, of their darkest tragedy.  

Perhaps all I have to do this coming Sunday is simply to visit the place of my pain.  The place inside where I feel abandoned, wronged, wounded.  Because that's what the women did this first Easter morning.

Now going to the place of our pain isn't easy.  Some of us haven't visited it in a long time.  Some of us have rolled such large stones in front of it that it cannot be readily visited or easily experienced.  Others of us have chosen to forget we have places of pain, or are guarding ourselves from uncovering our own wounds, from working through our past hurts.  You will find the place of your pain where you are the most guarded, the most barricaded.  It's a place of darkness, of decay.  It's a place where you have a lot of defenses built up.  And it, to varying degrees, is within each one of us.

But the story doesn't end there.

Because after the women went to the place of their pain, they found that the heavy tombstone had been rolled away, the guards disarmed by the presence of an angel.  They found that the place of their pain had been made accessible to them.

So this Easter Sunday, choose to visit the place of your pain.

Go there yourself or take a friend with you, but choose to go to the place of your wounds, of your disappointment!  Like the women on that first Resurrection morning, you may find that dark place opened for you, the large stone rolled away, the guards disarmed.  Perhaps if you are able to visit the place of your pain you will find the power of it broken over you, even supernaturally.

In the midst of your fear and sorrow, least expecting it, you will find the Risen Savior.  In the midst of your deepest disappointment and tragedy, you will find that you are not alone.  And when we go to the place of our deepest pain, we may find instead the Risen Christ, generously greeting us.

Palm Sunday Prayer

Jesus, I can see your love and bravery,

riding into Jerusalem with palm branches covering the ground,

knowing that you would soon be betrayed and killed.

In the same way, 

help me to walk with you confidently and without fear.  

When palm branches line my path with the green promise of new life,

remind me that pain is never far away.  

And when the darkness comes, remind me that you are nearer still.  

Amen.  

My Will be Done

Our Father in Heaven,
Hallowed be your name
Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
Forgive us our debts, as we have also forgiven our debtors
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever
Amen.

A few weeks ago Dan and I went to the annual HIM conference held here in Hawaii.  We look forward to it every year as we get to see friends from other churches as well as hear from pastors, speakers, authors, and musicians who wouldn't otherwise come to our state.

During one of the main sessions, Pete Greig, founder of the 24/7 prayer movement and author of quite a few books, including God on Mute, was speaking about "Worshiping When It's Hard."  His wife was diagnosed with a debilitating brain tumor after their second child was born, and I found myself earnestly listening to him, impacted by both his story and faith.  Towards the end of his message he brought us through the Lord's prayer, and I was surprised to find myself unwilling to repeat it.

After he was speaking we were given a chance to pray or write, so I tried to "fix" my earlier reticence to speak the prayer, and to my horror, found myself repeatedly saying "My will be done" instead of "Your will be done."

Talk about a Freudian slip!

It makes sense because I always want my will to be done.  I wanted Vincent to be wholly healthy, to live a long life.  I want to feel safe in my home, not wondering if someone's going to break in and steal something priceless.  I want everyone to cater to how I'm feeling, to what I need, to share in my grief.  I want Dan to be happy in the social work field and not have to go to seminary, I want to own a little house somewhere with a basement that doesn't flood, I want to have another child, a blossoming career, a bank account stuffed with money, a craft room filled with cute fabric.

I want a lot of things.  Do you?

I'm praying that we may find the grace to embrace what we have as well as what we don't, and through our embracing of God's will, be pulled into His future.

Lenten Prayer

Dust and ashes touch our face,
mark our failure and our falling.
Holy Spirit, come,
walk with us tomorrow,
take us as disciples,
washed and wakened by your calling.
Take us by the hand and lead us,
lead us through the desert sands,
bring us living water,
Holy Spirit, come.


-adapted from the Book of a Thousand Prayers

Lost and Found

Yesterday the BPA and phthalate-free plates & feeding utensils I ordered online for Theo (after my late-night panic attack) arrived in the mail.  Theo was ecstatic about having a spoon and fork that looked like a fork lift and a some kind of loading truck.  Plus, there was a third utensil, a "shovel" that you can use to push the food onto the fork/spoon.  Very clever.  Especially if you're 3.5 years old.

Since our "safer" new stuff arrived, I took the opportunity to clean out our cupboards that were cluttered up with kiddie plates, utensils, cups, and all sorts of baby to toddler-ish feeding paraphernalia.

And that's when I found it, locked inside a twist-to-seal baby feeder.  I saw the flash of gold and then, suddenly, I knew what it was, in a brilliant moment of joy.  It was my lost golden necklace and pendant, the chain part from Dan, and the pendant a present from my dad on my 18th birthday.  It's the only jewelry item I have left from my dad since our house was broken into the week after Vincent's funeral.

During the break-in the thieves took our cameras, computers and external hard drives, all of which contained our videos and pictures of Vincent.  We lost around 75% of all our video footage of Vincent.  And they took all my "real" jewelry that they could find.

Except for this gold necklace that was in the bathroom.

For days after the break-in, I started hiding all my remaining items that I wanted to keep safe.  I hid Vincent's favorite stuffed animals, blankies, my not-so-valuable jewelry, our spare change, and this necklace.  Before going out I would hide this necklace in the most random of places until the day came that I couldn't for the life of me remember where I put it.  I cleaned out two closets and moved 3 dressers.   It was nowhere to be found.

So I lost a lot to these thieves... and then I lost even more to Fear.   I still have some awesome earrings that are so *safely* hidden I may never find them.

Fear often leads us to hide things. We may think we're protecting them, keeping them safe, but it may take us years before we rediscover what was lost.  Sometimes we may never find them again. It makes me wonder - what else have I hidden?  Perhaps it's a talent or a calling or a memory, inaccessible now, unusable. What else in my life has Fear taken from me?  Have I lost anything of brilliance or beauty or of great worth, locked away inside of me, out of sight, out of mind?

What's the point in "protecting" something precious only to lose it?  What's the point of preserving something to the point of rendering it inaccessible to our deepest selves?

Ironically, we as humans tend to lose whatever it is we hold most closely.  Maybe that's why Jesus said that to find your life, you first have to give it up.  We have to hold it loosely, we have to keep it vulnerable.  Because when we fearfully hide it, it's gone from us, out of reach, unable to be of any use, truly lost in the fullest sense of the word. But when we hold our lives open to God, willing for them to be lost in Him, that's when we find what it is that's been hidden from us all along.

When we are willing to give our lives up, that's when they're found.  That's the ultimate paradox.

As we begin this season of Lent, may you find whatever it is that you have fearfully lost along the way.   And may we be willing to boldly lose our deepest treasures, knowing that's how they'll really be found.

...And hopefully I'll eventually find that darn pair of earrings.