Dreading Easter

I was dreading Easter weekend. 

After being ripped wide with the news of cancer on Tuesday, the last thing I felt like thinking about were Easter baskets and plastic eggs.

Easter didn't register. It didn't make sense. Nothing in my life felt very springy or pastel at the moment.  It didn't feel like a Holy week, it felt like a horrible week.

But this would be Bella's first Easter ever, plus we had four other children. Cancer diagnosis or not, Easter baskets and eggs were not something I could easily skip over. So Thursday morning I managed to get myself to Target and wander numbly through the picked-over-aisles of Easter detritus. I placed shiny trinkets in my cart, not even sure what those trinkets really were. Just stuff. Stuff to stuff baskets and stuff to stuff empty eggs. Stuff which had suddenly lost all of its intrigue and allure. 

I tried to make lists of things we needed to do. Things we needed for our Easter meal. But my brain refused to focus. I left the store quickly, drove home, and in anger, threw the bags of Easter stuff  in a closet.

Friday dawned. Good Friday. Gray and rainy. "Perfect," I thought. "Lord, can I just stay in my pajamas and skip this day altogether?" This was also the day we had to to tell our son, Tyler. He had been away all week on a school trip. But it was Easter weekend and I had to tell my boy that his mom had cancer. 

Holiday? Holy day? I think not. 

Hard day.

I knew telling him was at the top of my to-do-list, but I wanted nothing more than to crumple up that list and throw it into the back of the closet along with my Target bags. 

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

Pretend that to-do-list belonged to someone else. 
Pretend Easter wasn't really happening this weekend. 

Pretend this cancer thing wasn't real.

Instead the day passed and the time came and I headed out to meet his bus. 
Instead I sat my son on a sofa and looked him in the eyes.  
Instead I held his hand tightly. 
Instead I watched my brave boy's face crumble when I whispered the wicked word cancer.  

There was no pretending. 

Not really. He was the last in our family to be told. And, even by that time, the telling hadn't gotten any easier.

We kept ourselves busy all weekend. We attempted to keep things normal. For the children. For us. We even made a weak attempt at cheerful. Saturday morning we loaded everyone in the car for a trip to Ikea. The plan was to find a bookshelf for Tyler's room. The kids and Rick kept asking my opinion. It was everything I could do to hold back from yelling, "I don't really care."

Now had those words actually come spewing out of their mother's mouth, I am telling you my entire family would have fallen to the floor in great, writhing, wailing heaps of fear.

WHAT? Mom not care about a piece of furniture?  
No way. Not possible.
Our mom loves furniture. 
She always cares about furniture.  

Yes, that would have been it. Had I said those words out loud, I would have had all six of them crying dramatically on modern Swedish sofas.  

So there I was pretending to care deeply about the book-shelf-thingy we were purchasing. Pretending that I really did prefer the brushed walnut finish to the ebony.

Side note: While on the subject of furniture, I have to tell you what my funny friend, Beverly, said to me last week. First of all--for context--you need to know Beverly was diagnosed with breast cancer one month before me. She had her major surgery the same week I was going through all my crazy diagnostic stuff. In fact, I was standing in her yard when my doctor called to deliver the news that my tumor was malignant. (Crazy right? Maybe some day this will all make sense. Maybe).

Anyway, Bev is a funny gal. Even in the midst of both of us pinned under this massive rock of cancer, she remains funny. She called me one morning after my diagnosis and without even saying hello, said, "You know, Jody, this is a really good time to ask for new furniture." Seriously. She meant it. She loves furniture too and she reminded me what husband is really going to say no to his recently-cancer-diagnosed wife? I mean there isn't a whole lot to laugh about right now, but that was pretty funny.    

So as I roamed the enormous aisles at Ikea on that Saturday before Easter I kind of played with the idea. Flirted a little with plopping down on something new and wonderful and unnecessary and pleading my need for the comfort and balm of new furniture. I thought about it, but I have to tell you, crazy as that sounds, I truly didn't care. It was a funny thought, but all I really was was heartbroken and crushed and maybe even a little numb. Furniture and fun just wouldn't fit for me.

How strange to be at this place of numb on Easter weekend. Easter was about living and life and growth and new birth. I thought about how Jesus' disciples and followers and all of His many Marys must have felt on that day in between the cross and the empty tomb. I am sure they weren't thinking about Swedish furniture, but surely they must have been somewhere, doing something to keep their hands and their minds and themselves busy. Surely they must have been stirring some kind of soup, or sweeping a floor, or slamming a hammer, or washing someone's dusty feet. Surely. 

Their Lord was just taken from them. They had just watched their dear friend, Jesus, die a painful death upon a cruel and crude cross. The world went dark. Completely. The earth trembled. Violently. Their Jesus was gone. Definitively. They left their hope on a hill outside a city and it stayed there mixing with the very blood of their sinless, perfect, precious Jesus.  

How could this happen? How could God possibly be in it? 

So that was Saturday--the day in between. The day of pretend. The day of keeping busy. The day of numb. 
The day of asking where-has-my-God-gone? 

Where are you God? How did you let this cancer thing even happen? We never saw it coming? We weren't ready. We aren't ready. We can't do this. 

Why have you forsaken me? My family? All of us. Why?

And then Sunday morning came.

I woke at first light with dread. I knew I would need to get through this day. I had five children and a husband counting on me. It was time to get up, put on my face of pretend and step back into my shoes of numb and not-thinking. 

That was my best plan waking up on Easter.

But somewhere in the midst of that busy morning, something started to change. Little bit by little bit. I am not really sure what. I wish I could tell you exactly when and how.

It might have been the early morning sun peeking through our woods out back.

It might have been the sleeping children in their rooms upstairs.  

It may have been my morning devotional and the coffee and a kiss from my husband. 

But the heaviness of this hard Holy Week started to lighten. Just a little. Bit by bit.  

I certainly felt a beat of joy when I walked into the kitchen and found Bella and her Easter parade of all the ceramic rabbits she had gathered from around the house. (I didn't realize I had quite so many rabbits sitting around. Oh my). 

I felt another joy beat  as I watched the children come climbing loudly and laughing into the car on our way to church.

I couldn't help but see their beauty. 

I looked at their lovely, young faces and I was overwhelmed with their continued hope and joy--their innocence even after such a painful week. Even with the worry about their mama, they came with clear eyes and bright smiles and helping hands. It was all I could do to not sit and stare (weirdly) at them all the way to church. 

Then finally at church, worship began. And with the first note of the first song, I felt the numb begin to melt even a little bit more.

I felt the cold clutch of fear begin to shake loose just a little bit more.   

I held Bella in my arms and we sang together. I felt my throat open wide and my heart open wider.

I felt wide open.  

Sad, yes, but surrounded. 

Fearful, sure, but with faith.

Scared, of course, but in the presence of the sacred.

I stood there in the midst of praise music and all of this jubilant Easter celebration and I took hold of my Risen Savior. No, on second thought, maybe He was taking hold of me. I am not sure, but I can tell you there was some mighty holding taking place in our row that Sunday morning.

And suddenly it was Easter…really Easter. I felt it. I knew it. I was sure of it. 

The stone of dread and death and deep fear in my heart was beginning to roll away. I could feel it move. 

"Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each there, 'Who will roll the stone way from the entrance of the tomb?' 

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away.

He has risen! He is not here." ~ Mark 16: 2-4, 6

Easter really does change everything. Even cancer. Even catastrophe. 

Even when the stone is very large. 

Easter changes everything. 

He is risen!

Because He lives, I, too, can live.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow. 

Whatever tomorrow brings.