A Personal Easter

A pause in the series of excerpts from my journal. A reflection on what being alone has showed me about Easter.

So I look back now that Lent is over at  failure. No great surprise, since I expended only feeble effort. I did not fulfill the Lenten plans I made, plans formed for my own spiritual benefit as well as promises to pray for others. I was consistent neither in those things I planned to do, nor in those things I promised I would not do. I failed. Every one.

 But God, in His goodness, used even this. In my failure, I began--only began--to see that I can't do these things alone. I can't overcome sin without help from God, the only one who ever defeated it.

My desire and effort, though incomplete, can give me access to His sufficient strength but, like Paul or Peter or anyone else who has lead a godly life, I have to truly want to. That's the part that keeps escaping me. I have to be crucified, too, and it begins with wanting to.

I have to finally, finally give up. I have to admit to my weakness, guilt, and persistent error if I am to ever rise with Christ. 

I was baptized into death. Only Christ can raise me up. I have to yield completely to Him. I cannot raise myself. Ever. But Christ rises and can bring me with Him if I let Him.

So, I have to walk with Him into death--a death of everything I thought I wanted, a death of all my plans, a death of my own self-protection. I have to walk with Him into His plans, and a life with Him that He promises will be more than I could ever have dreamed.

Every time I step away from Him, even glance or have a momentary fleeting thought, I sin. I can't help it. This happens because I was made by Him to live with Him. If Easter means anything personal, if the struggles and confusion of this last year, the first of my widowhood, have done any good work, they serve to show me my weakness. They show me that I can't do anything eternal alone.

I have to leave behind all the pride and strength I've spent a lifetime building up. I have to leave it all and cry out for God's help because what I can do alone is of little consequence. I can make decisions. I can do work. I can organize, and gather, and build. But I can't settle my soul. I can't keep safe. I can't avoid sin. I need help, God's help, for these and like so many of us, I don't want to ask for it.

That is my crucifixion. To admit I need help and learn to ask for it.

Christ walked out of tomb on that dark night before the Easter dawn triumphant, and it's a fine thing to witness. But this year, that's not enough. I've been watching too long. This year, I want Him to take me with Him.

For your Maker is your husband; the Lord Almighty is His Name.--Isaiah 54:5

image: alighthouse.com

#8, April 16, 2015, Sore Delight

The following is the next in the series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.

Something is loosening its grip a bit. I can’t write yet, but I can think about it a little. I don’t think anymore that Dave is going to die. At least not anytime soon, although he still seems afraid of trying to sleep in bed. He’s been developing bed sores from spending so much of his life in a chair, but he still doesn’t want to change that. It’s like he can’t see that it prevents him from doing any of the traveling he says he wants to do.

As for me, I’m getting used to this, and am content that I’m living the life given me. There are still quick, fresh mornings like this that let me breathe, and days that allow pleasant hours. Asking more than that is more than too much, but true delight still sometimes comes.

image: clipart-library.com

#7, April 15, 2015, The Fragile Peace

The following is the next in a series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life:

These are the mornings I wait all year for--when I can open the window and hear the owls call just before sunrise, then transition to the twittering of morning birds. Mild, bright, and gentle at the same time. Clean. New.

These are not like some days that have slid mildly by in larger seasons. Needs press--some to do with normal activity--washing and cleaning--some to do with Dave's illness--making breakfast for him and his friend because he can't go out and taking him to physical therapy--and some extra ones of my own making--painting, assembling furniture, or working on the details of the kitchen design.

But right at this moment, I hear the birds and feel the cool promise of a gentle day.

One of my oldest friends called last night. Amid their life of going here and there in their new Corvette and of cruises and trips, she wants us to come down to see them. She asks every time, even after seeing Dave's weakness in December. When I say he improves a little, she doesn't know the low weakness he improves from and I don't dare tell her. I want to spare her worry--and to spare me the pain of her reaction, her unintended sympathy for a grim reality not yet known.

If I could only slide through this day with the grateful calm of these moments. But Dave will wake, and people will come. They will obscure the fragile early morning peace, and I will live another day. Oh, God, thank you for the beauty.

Image: betterphoto.com