The Mess of Easter

This year, Easter was a bit of a wreck.

The day went off-track before there was even a hint of daylight. And for a million reasons, it flailed and failed and ended in the flames of a heated argument between me and Brian.

Some other highlights:

I threw an adult version of a toddler tantrum and yelled some choice words in front of my kids loud enough for our lone neighbor to hear.

I didn’t have the wherewithal to plan/execute a big meal, so the boys all had various forms of leftovers, and I had a sandwich.

I forgot to find the Easter baskets or even get Easter candy/presents, and so there was no “Easter magic” this year.

I cried alone in my closest.

The boys were clingy, Brian and I were exhausted, and we were all a bit of a mess. I squeezed myself into a nice outfit in the hopes of getting at least one nice family picture. Both that hope and the outfit were short-lived.

The events of March have left us all trying to catch our breath a bit, and honestly, Easter just snuck up on me this year.

*

When I think of the first Easter, I tend to think of the glorious risen Jesus—clothed in crisp white robes, gently glowing like a living sunbeam. I think of the joy and hope of Mary and the disciples as they witnessed their beloved friend and Messiah standing before them again. Of the excitement and the laughter and astonished silence as they struggled to take it all in.

I never think about the eyes, red-rimmed and bleary. Of the ache and pain of souls huddled in fear. Of rumpled clothes and bodies unwashed and dirty, neglected in the face of overwhelming grief. Of hearts buried in darkness like the tomb where their Hope laid wrapped in grave clothes.

And even though Jesus told his disciples and friends about his imminent death and resurrection, they still had no idea. They couldn’t comprehend the victory He spoke of.

In so many ways, that first Easter snuck up on them.

*

As Brian put the boys down for bed, I sat out on our front swing, listening to the sounds of early spring and watching the sun set through the trees just starting to bud with new life.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wanted Easter to be this beautiful, light-filled, astonishing day. Full of Hope and celebration. Full of smiles and perfection—like I imagined the first Easter was. Like the million photos I saw all day long in my social media feeds.

Instead it was a day of red-rimmed, bleary eyes and rumpled flannels and so. many. meltdowns.

And honestly, I think that is more accurate to how things were on that day over 2,000 years ago.

That day, in the midst of darkness and the general mess of life, Jesus came. He walked in with open arms. He was the one who brought the Joy and Hope and celebration. It wasn’t something His disciples and followers had to muster up or create. There wasn’t a banquet table waiting for Him—or them.

It was, simply, about basking in the presence of the Risen Savior. Of running to tell others of the Good News and bringing them to the feet of the Rabbi who defeated death.

Those first believers didn’t bring anything but pain and hopelessness, regret and fear, to the first Easter.

And they left full of contagious Joy and Hope and Love.

*

I love the full, bright, joyous celebrations on Easter. I love the packed, exuberant worship services and Sunday brunches and the beautiful Easter dresses and suits. I love the family gatherings and traditions of Easter baskets and eggs. Chocolate.

But this year I was reminded, almost painfully, that He didn’t come because we’re clean and shiny and joyful. He came because we’re a mess. All of us.

This year, I celebrated Easter by living its reality: continually bringing my angry, lonely, failing self to the Cross, asking for forgiveness and mercy, rising with His renewed Grace and Peace.

Again and again.

Because in my exhaustion and weakness, I kept losing His gifts. I couldn’t keep it together.

But He never asked me to.

He just asks us to come.

*

The full and continual work of the Cross is something I don’t think I will ever fully understand. But it’s a mystery I will continue to enter into. Because the Cross is the place where we empty our hands and hearts of our pain, our hopelessness and despair.

It’s where our mistakes and sins are undone.

It’s where Jesus enters into our darkness and general mess of life, His arms open wide.

And because the tomb was empty, we can bask in His presence—and then leave full of contagious Joy and Hope and Love, again and again, however many times we need.

Because we don’t need to be clean and shiny; we don’t need to keep it together.

We just need to come.

***