It’s Easter again. I do not feel ready. I am not ready. I did not give up anything for lent. If I live through tomorrow, I have met my goals: survive the first quarter of 2018 and not pay any IRS penalties for underpayment on last year’s return. Why do I spend eleven months preparing for Christmas but Easter, which should be the biggest holiday of my year, gets mashed in between second quarter report cards, spring break, and taxes?
Christmas captures my imagination with a fairy tale saga. A young innocent women is married by her fiancé even though he should have disgraced her. There are prophecies, angels, shepherds, animals, a star, royal gifts, a perfect baby, all of it. The magic of Christmas brings hope – hope that my life will somehow take a turn for the best, that God will somehow rescue me from my trouble, that a good king will come and change the rules. Then a prince on a white horse will take me to his castle and we will live happily ever after.
Then Easter comes.
It turns out, the Prince is either bat shit crazy, or He is God. And although He cares about my needs, and has compassion on them, His plan is bigger than providing me silk, banquets, and carriages. But I really want to be a princess. At this moment I live in the peasant world. Children are shot at school, women raped, honest people are starving, and medicine that is supposed to heal kills. Lies. Hurt. Pain. Cover ups. Slavery. Ethnic cleansings. Ugliness. Evil. I cannot take it. I want to be able to sleep at night. I want to hide in the castle with a pink fluffy canopy bed and a toasty fire that never goes out because someone else is responsible.
I am angry. So angry.
I wander the streets and come across a crowd. There is that stupid Prince who was supposed to rescue me. He stands there in chains not saying anything. In that moment, I hate him. I hate being tired, cold, hungry, alone. I hate it all. He could have done something. He could do something right now, but He does not. He just stands there. So I shout. I join the crowd in screaming, spitting, and throwing whatever I can get my hands on. He dies. He bleeds to death by His own choice. His blood fills the street. I feel nauseous.
What an idiot.
But that was the plan. He was supposed to stand there, say nothing, and die. Horrific. It is worse than ugly. It is un-beautiful. I cannot dwell on another act of violence, even if I instigated it. Gone are the angels, the star, the fairy tale, and the gold. There is no sliver of a chance that this story will end the way I hoped. It is not my story. It is His story which I cannot decipher at present. I know Sunday is coming bringing with it the resurrection and eternal life, but I am tired. My heart has lost hope and even my feet have ceased to respond to the order to walk.
I lie down in the filthy, bloody street and sob my heart out.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.