Revived and edited post from 2013.
Isn’t Resurrection Sunday supposed to be filled with frilly Easter dresses, the serenity of an empty tomb, and joyful anticipation of our own ascension?….not dirty finger-nailed children, $700 car repair bills and little white shoes full of scuff marks (because you don’t know how to say no to three young girls dying to play dress-up and gallop around the back yard waiting to be rescued by their prince in shining armor).
The power of the resurrection is much more moving in a dramatic rendition of the synthesized moment, not in the actual reality of watching someone you know die or someone else close to you cry. It’s more fun to imagine what it must have been like when Mary stood close to the tomb mourning her loss only to hear his voice behind her. Not so fun to lose someone you love and know without a shadow of a doubt, you will never hear their voice again (in this life).
I feel God in the song. I feel the power of his resurrection in the words I sing. But when the music stops and we all go home, and I’m sitting with my family alone, I feel the pressure of life, the overwhelming tendency toward strife and I wonder what resurrection really means.
Tribute to my mother and father who taught me the meaning of resurrection. Not once did they buckle under the pressure of trials or tribulation. They always rose again, every single Sunday morning to take us to church, put food on the table, and ensure we not only had the basics of Christianity as a foundation upon which for us to grow–but even a homemade Easter basket to fill our day with fun. THAT was a miracle of resurrection proportions.