When Easter Dawns Uncertain

Hey-o...

Just chillin here on Easter Saturday, writing from the exact same place I started my Lent on Ash Wednesday...

The sick bed.

Yep, the same place of suffering, the same no-social-media isolation [only one day away from the end of my fast], the same slow, slow passage of idle hours when I crave the distraction of busyness--especially when there is SO much to be done in preparation for our celebration tomorrow.

Aside from my mounting chronic illness woes, I've been fairly free of communicable junk since that fateful Wednesday some 40 odd days ago.

Until yesterday.

I'm sure it's no coincidence that I am here. Again.

[Seriously, God?]

Ironically, I waxed poetic just the other day about Jesus proving that He is actively with me in such moments as these, and worse...because I finally shut up and let Him show me.

I offered myself anew, even as I felt like the crud was coming on yesterday, thinking, "I can do this with You, Jesus. I will suffer with you for all the souls you need."

But today?
Heading into the joy of Easter?

Oh ho ho. That doesn't sound like best plan now, does it?

Do you really want to return to that horrific cross with me so quickly, Lord? Shan't we just take a nice break (hey even a tiny one would do) and celebrate that Easter joy with a happy, healthy moment or two? I'm thinking simple. You know, just put on our Easter best, glory in the joy of a packed resurrection mass and heartfelt Alleluia, cook a nice dinner as we come together in YOUR NAME, and snap a quick, crazy-kid picture for posterity...and for my grand return to social media, of course.

Sure would be nice.

But beyond some soup and an early bedtime, I don't get to know what awaits.

Instead, from my bed-ridden vigil of uncertainty earlier, I perked my ears up to the sound of Easter Vigil bells ringing from our church just down the road.

It immediately made me think of the incredible post I read this morning by the ever-wise Mary about abiding deeply in a very different kind of Easter joy.

It also reminded me of this wistful carol by Burl Ives that grabbed my attention anew this past Christmas. The lyrics come from a poem by my long-time favorite, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, his words welling up from the deep despair that enveloped him following his wife's death.

Although--thank you God--I haven't even dipped my toe into the pit of grief and loss these two wise ones have experienced, the weariness of my physical condition drags on, and on, and on, with the mental and emotional exhaustion a close second.

The words struck me deeply as our church's bells echoed and the old Christmas melody surfaced again in my head--

Then pealed the bells
more loud and deep
God is not dead,
Nor does he sleep...

Could the Easter parallel be any clearer?

And as I lie here in a bed of more suffering this Holy Saturday, and maybe on Easter tomorrow too (only if I must, please, God?) I know that truly, these are the only words that matter.

He is not dead.
He no longer sleeps.

He lives. Triumphant. 

Suffering exists--even lasts for seemingly endless dark nights--but it never wins.

-     -     -

Of course, our Holy Saturday usually plays out as a day of carefree egg decorating, prepping outfits and meals while bustling around the house, and decking out the church for the exuberant joy to come.

With the hindsight we Christians have now, it's hard to place ourselves in the disciples' shoes (sandals?) and imagine their long, dark Holy Saturday--unless, like today, some unwelcome suffering surprises us and disrupts our fabulous plans.

Yet on that first Holy Saturday, none of that anticipation existed for Christ's disciples. Maybe, for some of His most faithful followers, there was still a tiny sliver of hope against hope, all but extinguished by the stark, terrifying reality of Good Friday. Still, all that long, soul-crushing Saturday, the disciples were stricken by wave after wave of fresh grief, quaking in fear, with nary a hint of resurrection hope on which to rest as they attempted to come to terms with every traumatic truth they'd witnessed in the past 24+ hours.

Despite His promises, they had no idea when--or how--this dark night would end.
They had no certainty that they would emerge unscathed.

We know now full well that their anguish would last just a few more hours before the greatest joy they'd ever experienced began to filter through their ranks.

But as the sun set on their Holy Saturday, they had to live their present limbo of suffering and uncertainty--every aching second of it--until the moment prepared for them arrived.

Today, on my Holy Saturday of sniffles and suffering, I get the benefit of hindsight, a comfortable bed, modern medicine, and the reassurance that I'm not hiding with a price on my head like the disciples did, simply for loving our Savior.

I get the benefit of swimming in oceans more hope and certainty than they had that day.

Still, like them, I am required to exist in the present.

It's not my role to know when my little bout of suffering will end.

Tea and sleep may help me rally yet for the grand celebration tomorrow. I may get to be present, love on my family, experience the joy of mass, help out with Easter dinner.

I may not.

But even if it's not my role to know if or when or how long--even if I celebrate from a bed, inclining my ear toward the window to hear the peal of the Easter bells--I get to celebrate with the truth that no matter how long the darkness, it will never, ever win.

He is not dead, nor does he sleep.
He lives.

He triumphs.

Alleluia!