Sunday, April 24, 2011

Everyday Life: There are no coincidences

Three hundred and sixty five days.

They've passed ever so slowly and also, almost, in the span of one fleeting heartbeat.

My dad, strong and stoic, stubborn and yet easy going, slipped out of this world and into eternity one year ago today.

Today.

The day my heart song sings of a Risen Savior.

Today.

The day my feverish toddler snuggles in the crook of my arm while John and G. glorify a living King at our church.

Today.

The day hazy Sunday light illuminates sun-saturated daffodils, a reminder that winter fades into distant memory as soon as warmth emerges from its gray, that new life shoots up out of the damp, barren soils of the Earth.

Easter reminder

There are no coincidences here, now.

The small boy too sick for church nursery but healthy enough for a stroll around our part of God's greened-up Earth.

Out in His goodness

The sunlight after days of rain and clouds.

The flowers standing tall after a long, harsh winter.

The celebration of Joy Risen on the anniversary of my father's death.

I see with opened eyes, today -- this anniversary, this Easter Sunday, this day of spring revived -- Luke's narrative of an empty tomb.

I am Mary, standing at the edge of an empty tomb, eyes fixated on what is missing rather than on what has been given.

I am Peter, running as fast as my feet will carry to the rumored barren cave, racing to find what my ears have once heard but heart has yet to grasp.

I am Thomas, who missed the message first hand, filled with doubting questions, longing to see with my very eyes the promise of resurrection and redemption.

But I am also Mary, who believes the heavenly hosts' good news.

And I am also Peter, who cries out to his risen King.

And I am also Thomas, who has placed his finger in the nail holes of hands too Holy to have been bound to my sin forever, and who has believed.

There were no coincidences there, then either.

The reality is that Good Friday happened.

But Sunday.

Sunday came.

And it etched hope on the weariest of hearts.

Then.

And now.

"Our Lord has written the promise of the resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in spring-time." Martin Luther

lt;center>so much shouting, so much   laughter

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