As I begin this blog with some crying and trying real hard to figure out what Easter means, I know some things...
I know that Jesus rose from the dead. I feel it. I can't explain it. I'm sorry that I can't. There's no evidence of it, and he may not have even risen from the dead. But he's alive. Just like my father and my mother (Happy Birthday, Mom!) and Pappy and Gram and Grandma Schultz and Uncle James and... they're all alive. And my brother or sister, the one I never knew about. They're all here tonight. And I'm celebrating Easter with all of them!
Because I am learning that Easter isn't about Jesus. It's about us. It's about me and it's about you. It's about all of us learning that there are times that we get put into the grave. We get put there, sometimes because of our own choosing (in my case), sometimes not because we choose it. Easter is about coming out of the grave. And I can't come out of the grave right now, and that's very sad for me. Which would explain why I'm blogging and not attending a really cool Easter Vigil somewhere in New York City.
The grave sucks. My daughter asked if she could come to New York and spend Easter with me, I refused. She was on spring break from school (where she is the MOST AWESOME student in the college she is attending) and the MOST CREATIVE person I've ever known (sorry Maggie, the pelican painting is amazing, but your Katniss dress is a VERY close #2). I regret so much that I missed, mainly because I am still in my grave. I missed seeing what was going on with my kids. Their resentment is completely understood.
I missed a chemical dependency or two (or maybe three). I missed a lot of things in their lives that 'normal' parents would not have missed. I missed them because I was 'too busy' and 'providing'. The reality was I was blind to what my children needed. And that blindness, that total disregard for who my children were becoming, effects us to this day. I know three of the most amazing people on this planet. My oldest daughter is one of the most creative costumers in the world. My middle daughter has created some of the most beautiful pieces of art that I've seen in a long time. My son is one of the most creative comics and teachers that I've ever come in contact with. And I don't tell them that enough. And it's good that I don't need to, they know it. But it would be good if I could tell them.
I hope their graves are not as deep as mine. I don't think they are, and I hope they aren't. I dug mine. I dug it when I took the job I have. I dug it when I moved to New York. It just gets deeper as I realize that, on Easter, my highlight will be cleaning my apartment and writing a technical specification for a demonstration. I tried to make friends here. I have some. But none that care enough about me to make sure that my Easter is spent around people who care about me. They have their own people who they need to make sure are OK on this feast. So I am spending Easter alone. Heck, even Jesus didn't do that!
My grave is there, the rock rolled over, the cloths draped over me. All of the regrets, all of the pain, all of the bad decisions I've made, all of the wrong things I've done, they are the cloths. Like Jesus, I am waiting for the Father to reach down and tell me...
ARISE, MY LOVE. THE GRAVE NO LONGER HAS A HOLD ON YOU.
When that day comes, this planet will hear the rejoicing!
