Happy Easter
Though I want to, I'm finding it hard to make space to observe Holy Week with any kind of spiritual discipline. I lack drive and energy in the evenings, my free time. In college, I attended services, had long conversations into the night with roommates, found quiet places to retreat and read and pray. I had more thoughts and prayed more prayers.
I am catching glimpses, though, small reminders not just of the sacredness of this week, but the way the sacred can shake out in small moments at any moment. And I can soak up those moments like spring sun if I'm paying attention, if I slow down.
Today was E's "Spring Party" at preschool, a thinly veiled Easter party complete with bunnies, hopping games, eggs, and a few little girls sporting their Easter dresses early. It was sweet and backwards all at once. I felt a little sad about it all, that we couldn't talk about why this day was really special. It turned out words and explanations weren't necessary--sure, we didn't share the actual story; that would have been unlikely. Nevertheless, meaning gradually began to punctuate the morning. Kids are smart, and they were well aware that this was an Easter celebration, even if Easter means an enormous rabbit with an abnormally large head and big floppy ears, even if candy and white patent leather and lace are more iconic to them than images of Christ on the Cross. They still knew. This is Easter. At the craft table today, one of E's friends said, "When I get home I'm going to eat as much candy as I can, even though I can't eat it right now."
Huh? I thought.
"Yeah," his twin sister added as if to clarify my confusion, "We gave up candy for Lent. What did you give up for Lent?"
I can answer this one. "Shopping."
"Shopping!" shrieked another little boy with delight. He was sporting a designer shirt and a new haircut, both of which looked adorable on him. "That means you have to wear the same clothes all the time!" He laughed like this was the best joke he'd heard all day.
"I know," I sighed trying to mask my enormous grin. "It was hard to give it up. I really like shopping."
"Why did you?" asked another girl.
"Because I like it too much. Not doing it helps me spend my time doing better things."
"Oh," was the collective response. Did they get it? I'll never know. But it was satisfying to stamp and sticker paper eggs at a spring party while discussing Lent with the five-and-under crowd. Oh, was it satisfying.
The little girl who had foresworn sweets confessed to forgetting her promise and eating some candy by accident. I confessed to buying hop balls for E and A before really thinking through how I was breaking my fast. At that moment, we were all equals. It was great.
I love talking to little kids. They are so wise we sometimes miss it. Four and five-year-olds aren't always eloquent, so it's easy to overlook how astute they are, to assume they don't know or notice or care.
But making small talk with E's pals today reminded me of something I often forget. Each day is an opportunity to write on the blank pages of our children's lives. They are open and waiting and they are paying attention. I want my kids' pages to be filled with Truth and truth. I want them to know the Story and I want them to author stories of their own--stories where they're the main characters, where they're empowered to choose and to love and in doing both to change the world.
My sister Kait and I talk a lot about what it will take to change the world--or to change this culture we live in. It won't be governments or institutionalized religions. It won't be just Christians (though if we Christians lived by the Book better we'd be doing a lot more of the work than we do now. And I point the first finger at myself because I am the worst offender I know.) It will be people. It's no small thing that Mark and I have been entrusted three Littles--what tools will we give them, what stories will we write with them on the blank pages of their lives while they are still young? Will it be the story of grace, of mercy, of justice? Or will it be the story of self-fulfillment, of consumerism, of me, me, me?
We've intentionally chosen not to give our children gifts on Easter--I know, horrors. No scavenger hunt to find the hidden Easter basket that giant (scary-looking) bunny left. This is hard for me, because I LOVED the scavenger hunt. And I loved the tacky hats and new dresses, the little gifts buried in fake Easter grass and hoarding my candy until my sister Elissa had eaten all hers. (Then I would take mine out and eat it without mercy in front of her. Sorry, Liss; for this and many other reasons, I was a terrible older sister.)
But now, other than a special day with friends and an egg hunt, we keep it low key in the presents department. Because on this holiday of all holidays, we would like the Truth to take center stage--that Story that is about grace, and mercy, and pardon, and love. Most of all love.
It's the story I should be telling my three Littles every day. Not just in words, but in acts: in the climate of our home, in the way we spend our money and time, in the ways we choose to sow mercy in our midst.
It's spring. And though it's been a long week, a somewhat disappointing, stressful week (count circumstances and I might curl in a ball under the blankets, hibernating until a new season begins in our lives), I'm excited. I'm excited to have the rare privilege of sharing the Story I know by heart but still struggle to plant deep in that heart. I grasp it and let go, grasp and let go. I'm ready to grasp again. And I'm doing it while holding three small hands in mine. Showing them how to make the strokes, how to form the letters that form the words that write paragraphs of hope on a broken and weary world.
I'll make lots of mistakes, and so will they. We'll erase and revise and crumple up pages with plot twists we can't seem to resolve. But we'll keep writing and with equal parts mercy and grace we'll craft beautiful stories together--our hands on theirs at least just for now.
I know it's Good Friday. But I'll say it early. Happy hope, love, joy, peace, and redemption day. Happy Easter.
I am catching glimpses, though, small reminders not just of the sacredness of this week, but the way the sacred can shake out in small moments at any moment. And I can soak up those moments like spring sun if I'm paying attention, if I slow down.
Today was E's "Spring Party" at preschool, a thinly veiled Easter party complete with bunnies, hopping games, eggs, and a few little girls sporting their Easter dresses early. It was sweet and backwards all at once. I felt a little sad about it all, that we couldn't talk about why this day was really special. It turned out words and explanations weren't necessary--sure, we didn't share the actual story; that would have been unlikely. Nevertheless, meaning gradually began to punctuate the morning. Kids are smart, and they were well aware that this was an Easter celebration, even if Easter means an enormous rabbit with an abnormally large head and big floppy ears, even if candy and white patent leather and lace are more iconic to them than images of Christ on the Cross. They still knew. This is Easter. At the craft table today, one of E's friends said, "When I get home I'm going to eat as much candy as I can, even though I can't eat it right now."
Huh? I thought.
"Yeah," his twin sister added as if to clarify my confusion, "We gave up candy for Lent. What did you give up for Lent?"
I can answer this one. "Shopping."
"Shopping!" shrieked another little boy with delight. He was sporting a designer shirt and a new haircut, both of which looked adorable on him. "That means you have to wear the same clothes all the time!" He laughed like this was the best joke he'd heard all day.
"I know," I sighed trying to mask my enormous grin. "It was hard to give it up. I really like shopping."
"Why did you?" asked another girl.
"Because I like it too much. Not doing it helps me spend my time doing better things."
"Oh," was the collective response. Did they get it? I'll never know. But it was satisfying to stamp and sticker paper eggs at a spring party while discussing Lent with the five-and-under crowd. Oh, was it satisfying.
The little girl who had foresworn sweets confessed to forgetting her promise and eating some candy by accident. I confessed to buying hop balls for E and A before really thinking through how I was breaking my fast. At that moment, we were all equals. It was great.
I love talking to little kids. They are so wise we sometimes miss it. Four and five-year-olds aren't always eloquent, so it's easy to overlook how astute they are, to assume they don't know or notice or care.
But making small talk with E's pals today reminded me of something I often forget. Each day is an opportunity to write on the blank pages of our children's lives. They are open and waiting and they are paying attention. I want my kids' pages to be filled with Truth and truth. I want them to know the Story and I want them to author stories of their own--stories where they're the main characters, where they're empowered to choose and to love and in doing both to change the world.
My sister Kait and I talk a lot about what it will take to change the world--or to change this culture we live in. It won't be governments or institutionalized religions. It won't be just Christians (though if we Christians lived by the Book better we'd be doing a lot more of the work than we do now. And I point the first finger at myself because I am the worst offender I know.) It will be people. It's no small thing that Mark and I have been entrusted three Littles--what tools will we give them, what stories will we write with them on the blank pages of their lives while they are still young? Will it be the story of grace, of mercy, of justice? Or will it be the story of self-fulfillment, of consumerism, of me, me, me?
We've intentionally chosen not to give our children gifts on Easter--I know, horrors. No scavenger hunt to find the hidden Easter basket that giant (scary-looking) bunny left. This is hard for me, because I LOVED the scavenger hunt. And I loved the tacky hats and new dresses, the little gifts buried in fake Easter grass and hoarding my candy until my sister Elissa had eaten all hers. (Then I would take mine out and eat it without mercy in front of her. Sorry, Liss; for this and many other reasons, I was a terrible older sister.)
But now, other than a special day with friends and an egg hunt, we keep it low key in the presents department. Because on this holiday of all holidays, we would like the Truth to take center stage--that Story that is about grace, and mercy, and pardon, and love. Most of all love.
It's the story I should be telling my three Littles every day. Not just in words, but in acts: in the climate of our home, in the way we spend our money and time, in the ways we choose to sow mercy in our midst.
It's spring. And though it's been a long week, a somewhat disappointing, stressful week (count circumstances and I might curl in a ball under the blankets, hibernating until a new season begins in our lives), I'm excited. I'm excited to have the rare privilege of sharing the Story I know by heart but still struggle to plant deep in that heart. I grasp it and let go, grasp and let go. I'm ready to grasp again. And I'm doing it while holding three small hands in mine. Showing them how to make the strokes, how to form the letters that form the words that write paragraphs of hope on a broken and weary world.
I'll make lots of mistakes, and so will they. We'll erase and revise and crumple up pages with plot twists we can't seem to resolve. But we'll keep writing and with equal parts mercy and grace we'll craft beautiful stories together--our hands on theirs at least just for now.
I know it's Good Friday. But I'll say it early. Happy hope, love, joy, peace, and redemption day. Happy Easter.