Holy Saturday

We enjoyed two Easter Egg Hunts today on a perfect-weather day for such things.
We laughed, and ate candy and hot dogs, even took a picture with the Easter Bunny.
All the while, I remembered that on this day in 33 a.d., those who loved Jesus were grieving, not laughing around eggs and candy and chips and a bunny in the sunshine.

Today, the cloth on the wooden cross in front of our building is still black. Officially, the Church is still mourning Jesus' death on the cross. But in reality, we're hiding eggs and talking about an empty tomb.

Celebrating Easter while living through the reality of Holy Week is a strange thing. I love the tradition of it all, worshipping through the the story, experiencing it together as a church. But living in the past while knowing the future is a paradox.

Last night, we cried in the dark as we heard and sang of Jesus' betrayal and sacrifice for our salvation.

The night before that, we remembered Jesus' last supper with his friends, and shared in the remembrance meal ourselves as we received the Sacrament of Communion. And then we stripped the church of its accoutrements, down to the bare wood, just as Jesus was stripped of his friends, his clothing, his life.

In all of that, we mourned our part in this story of sacrifice and salvation, the sinfulness for which Jesus died. And we prayed that our sin might die with Christ.

But today we look forward to what comes tomorrow. We already rejoice, because unlike Jesus' first disciples, we know how this story ends. We know that tomorrow, when we go to peer into Jesus' tomb, it will be empty. And we know that because it is, we can and will know Resurrection life with our Lord.

It is the already, and the not yet--
It is the reality of faith and life for those who follow Jesus to the cross and beyond.

Thank God we don't do it alone.
For the Risen Lord helps us.

The Weekend's "Jedism"

Warning: This post is only for those who have an appreciation of bathroom humor.

Yesterday morning at 5:51, my son called me to accompany him to the bathroom.

As he tinkled into the toilet, this conversation occurred:
Him: Is it going into the pot?
Me: Yes, it is, sweetie.
Him: Some people call a potty a pot.
Me: Yes, they do son. Yes, they do.

And thus began my Good Friday.

"Jed-ism" of the Day

My son's nickname was ALMOST "Jed", so I think it's appropriate that I call the funny things he says "Jed-isms" as I share them with you.

Of course, a more appropriate post for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday should be here and is to come (I hope), but for now enjoy a tidbit of our morning:

As "Jed" held up a plastic toy nail from his kids' workbench, he says:
"This is the perfect nail to hang a picture of a dinosaur on the wall."

Our response: "What? Ummmm....no. But good thought!"

Happy "Jack Patricks" Day!

My baby boy is growing up.

I want to remember every fun moment.

It hit me yesterday as he walked (between two sixth-grade girls he adores) down the aisle of my second church, waving a palm branch behind the cross and light of Christ. I was singing "Hosanna, Loud Hosanna" to Christ, but I was also thinking: "He's a big boy now! He's part of the children's Palm Sunday Procession!" And then he continued to stand at the front of the sanctuary as the Children's Choir (with which he's been going to practice) sang their "Hosanna" song. He chose not to sing until after the service, when everyone but a couple of ushers were gone, of course, but he still stood up there!

So, I want to capture every adorable "little kid" moment somehow, and since we no longer keep up the baby book (or rather, my husband has stopped keeping it up, and I never did--terrible mommy!), I thought I'd share with all of you some of the things he's said recently that I want to have on record, so I never forget.

The first is the title of this post. We told him Saint Patrick's Day was coming up, and I gave him a little Irish flag I'd bought, and he started waving it and yelling "Happy Jack Patricks Day! Happy Jack Patricks Day!" I stopped him and made him say "saint," explaining to him that "Saint Patrick" was a great man who loved Jesus and told the people in the country of Ireland how much Jesus loved them, so they would love Jesus, too.

He still says "Happy Jack Patricks Day." Oh well.

Here are some other fun things he's said and done recently. Now remember he just turned 3 in January, but he loves some big words, and he uses them in context. Like this:

"ACTUALLY" (one of his favorite words) "I DO want this/that," after having said he doesn't.

"APPARENTLY" (another one of his favorites) "this train wants to go over here!" as he pushes it along the edge of the table.

"Y'all need to stop giving me this toothpaste, 'cause it hurts my froat." (protesting against my brushing his teeth this morning with his fruity Cars toothpaste)

Another thing he does that I want to remember: He changes the words to common songs, just like his Mommy and Daddy do. For example: "The bear went over the mountain" has become "The bear went over the choo-choo" and so forth...He knows what he's doing. You should hear some of the songs he creates!

And here's a really cute conversation that took place as they pulled away in Daddy's truck one day:

I said "Bye! Be careful!" But my son didn't hear what I said exactly, so as they pulled away he asked "Daddy, what did Mommy say?"

My husband: "She said you're really cute."

My son: "No!"

My husband: "No, you're not really cute?"

My son: "No, I AM, but that's not what she said!"

He's so right. And so big.

Sigh.

So Happy Jack Patricks Day!

Why I Love Bradford Pear Trees

After our marriage, my husband and I decided to plant a tree in the front yard of the parsonage. There were absolutely no trees on the big grassy lawn, and we thought it would be a nice addition, and something to be amazed by when we come back to visit here over the years and note how it has grown.

We talked a while about what kind of tree to buy, and we settled on my favorite yard tree: the Bradford Pear. They're in full bloom right now where we are; everywhere I go, I see them. And finally, after several years, our tree is doing exactly what I love most about these trees: heralding spring and the coming of Easter with branches reaching upward like hundreds of pure white arms praising God against the baby blue sky, while other trees and flowers continue to lie dormant.

When I look at Bradford Pear Trees in their first full bloom, especially on a warm clear day like today, I see resurrection. In the darkest coldest days of Passiontide and Holy Week, I see the promise of what comes on Easter morning. Everywhere, I see these reminders that God has not given up on creation, but instead brings life out of death and beauty from barrenness. I see the purity of God's love and faithfulness revealed in Jesus' life, death, and resurrection.

This coming Sunday we will bring branches of palms, not Bradford Pear blooms, and the Sunday after that we will smell the lilies, but until then...and even through Holy Week...the Bradford Pear trees in bloom all around me will be powerful living reminders, as well. Thank you, God, for all the ways your creation tells your truth.

Yard Burning

My husband tells me that his family used to burn their yard every year, but this is a totally new concept to me. I grew up a suburban girl; he grew up in the country. Now, we live in the town limits of a small rural town. Every night this week as I've driven home, I've smelled smoke. One night last week, the smoke was drifting into our home from the yard being burned across the street. People around here burn their yards before spring arrives, as do many in other rural areas.

I'm told that burning your yard is good for the growth. I'm told that, if you burn the old dead grass, the new grass of spring will have more room to thrive. I'm told that it's the same concept as controlled burns in the forest.

It's an interesting concept as I think of Lent. In our spiritual disciplines, we ask the Holy Spirit Fire to burn away the dead areas of our lives, the things that choke our good growth, the sins that keep us from thriving in Christ. Maybe Lent is like a controlled burn.

If so, I wonder what smoke signals my soul is putting out to let me know it's working. Do you smell anything burning in you? If so, maybe it's a good thing, a God thing. What do you think?

Testing, Testing, 1...2...3...

So a few minutes ago I left my son's room, having rocked him to one of his lullaby songs. I'm glad he called one of us back in there, because the going-to-bed routine tonight was particularly heinous. Now I'm the first to tell you that my adorable child is not perfect, but throw in the fact that he has given up afternoon naps (this happened several months ago) and is now three (a much more difficult age, in my opinion, than two was), and you get a "tired tooter," as we say, around 7:00 each evening.

He had been great for my husband all day today, I'm told, after they left me at the church to continue working through the evening. But just before his bath, he decided to lose it. He screamed through my washing him. He kicked me in the gut while I tried to dry him and put on his P.J.'s. He wailed that he wanted pink (strawberry) milk to sip as we read bedtime stories instead of the chocolate we had given him (for which he had asked, I might add). He fussed so much he missed "Goodnight Moon" almost entirely. He finally did give up on getting the pink milk and join in his bedtime prayers.

Anyway, so I'm thinking God must feel this way a lot. All the Lord asks of us is a little love and cooperation in return for the amazing love and divine care we receive. But instead we scream when God tries to clean us. We moan for things we don't have instead of appreciating what we do. We fuss instead of listening to God's voice speaking to us. It must be frustrating.

But eventually, when we become settled, I hope that God also hears us calling out to be held and comforted. I hope that we realize that we've behaved badly and want to tell our Heavenly Parent "I love you". I hope that we snuggle up to the heart of our Creator and listen to what the divine love tells us. In those tender moments, we realize that the only thing that matters is the purity of our love, the relationship that sustains and saves, the connection and trust we share in God's heart. And hopefully, hopefully, we learn to be a little bit better than we were the day before.

Over the River and Through the Woods...

I know I'm not the first to say such a thing, but my grandmother is one of the most wonderful saints I've ever known. Now 88, she continues to amaze me with her warmth, her faith, and her love.

Can't you see those things in her smile?

She's generous and kind, understanding and wise, tender and encouraging. I'm so thankful my son, her only great-grandchild despite six children and 11 grandchildren, gets to know her. He adores her, as well he should.

My grandmother went to college, Meredith College in Raleigh, NC, before most women took that step to higher education. She became a teacher. One summer day, she met my biological grandfather, who was studying at Duke University's Divinity School to be a Methodist preacher, while on family vacation on Portsmouth Island, adjacent to Okracoke Island, on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. He was there for his summer ministry internship.

They were married, and she began the life of a preacher's wife in the Holston Conference of the Methodist Church. She supported him as he made visits to mothers in the coal mining community he served during World War II, delivering the worst news any parent could imagine. She made visits with him to ill parishioners. She cooked wonderful meals for the presiding elders when they came for visits to his churches. She bore him four children, the second of whom is my father. When she moved with him in 1949 to a new church named St. Paul Methodist in Fountain City (now part of Knoxville), where he would be the second pastor ever, she did not know that she would not move with him again.

Early in his sixth year of appointment to St. Paul, when he was just 41 years old, my grandfather died suddenly and unexpectedly, early on a Sunday morning. My grandmother was left with the four children, ages 13 years to six weeks, in a parsonage in which she could not stay. Strangely, none of those four children followed in their father's footsteps by going into the ordained ministry. I am the only child or grandchild who has so far done so. Six decades after my grandfather, I, too, went to Duke Divinity School and became ordained. I remember how proud and happy my grandmother was at my ordination. Seeing her joy was one of my greatest joys.

I believe that if the Methodist Church had been actively ordaining women at the time my grandfather died, my grandmother could easily have been encouraged to enter the process. In fact, my grandfather died in 1955, and the General Conference of 1956 granted full clergy rights to women, but my grandmother found her calling, and her means to support her family, in becoming a lay minister of visitation at Church Street Methodist Church in downtown Knoxville. She talks about the time following my grandfather's death as a time of deep grief, yet a time in which she learned the provision of God through the dear and generous community of the church, who built a home for her, and whose monetary gifts would show up anonymously in her mailbox, exactly when she needed them most.

It was serving and worshipping at Church Street United Methodist Church that afforded her the opportunity to meet her second husband, the man I called "Granddaddy" until his death one year and four months ago. She knew him with his first wife and cared for both of them as she died of cancer, leaving two children alone with their father. A year later, love surfaced between my grandmother and "Granddaddy", and she took his children as her own. They married two years before I was born and lived together for 35 years.

Now she has a new community; she chose this past summer to move into a small apartment in a retirement community where some of her friends, also widows, reside. My husband, son, and I spent the last couple of days in Knoxville, dining out with her, going to Target, talking, enjoying the antics of a three-year-old. She let him grab her arm in affection. She bought him gifts. She held her forhead to his and smiled. She forgave his misbehavior. She read him books. She asked about the people in my churches. She overlooked our tardiness in arriving. She asked my husband about his mother, who is battling Multiple Myeloma. It was precious time. It is never long enough.

I dread the day (hopefully quite a few years from now) on which I will keep the promise I made to my grandmother: to conduct her funeral service beside my biological grandfather's grave in a little mountain town in Virginia, where he was born. My joy on that day will be to know that she's receiving the reward of her Master. Until then, it is my joy to spend any time I can with her, and to watch her love all of us in her family (especially her great-grandson) with the purest kind of love there is--God's love flowing through her.