Easter Joy

During the Christian season of lent, I typically dismiss any type of fasting that many Christians observe. Some of my friends give up their favorite dessert. Some of my friends forsake entertainment.

For me, giving up, say, chocolate would be like giving up oxygen. Plus, it seems like laying down one's desires for sugar doesn't compare to Jesus laying down His very life.

But this lenten season was different.

Our new pastor at church invited us to read chunks of the gospels during this time. It was amazing. I had new eyes. I read stories about Jesus that meant something anew to me.
The way Jesus invited himself over for dinner at a creepy tax-collector's house.
The way He took care of one small, unimportant woman, recognizing her in the crowd, healing her from her flow of blood of 12 years.
And then, the way he spoke the hard truth:
"You must pick up your cross DAILY and follow me."

If there's one thing I've come to realize as a Christ follower, it's that when Jesus speaks a spiritual truth in the gospels and then it stirs in your heart incessantly, that means that God wants you to let it be planted in your life in order for growth to occur.
It also means He wants you to do it right now. Pronto.
Don't look for spiritual places. Grow right now where you are.
In your office cubicle where you report to a prickly boss.
At the restaurant where you work and never seem to find respect.
As a stay at home mother when the fruit you see is not there because it is long term.

It was clear: My "daily cross" was at home. And I knew what it was.

Each day was an exercise in futility. The coffee was never strong enough to overcome my threadbare body and soul. My gym membership only temporarily masked my signs of tiredness. All support figures in my life were unavailable. Each day I was running at a pace which can only be sustained by humans in short sprints, not long marathons. But I didn't know how to get off the cycle.

At the heart of my tiredness was a person. A very special, darling person: my three year old daughter, Eve. She is dimples and smiles and has mastered the art of boundary-line drawing with her very simple and loudly-spoken use of the word "NO". She is a typical three year old.

And yet, somehow, our sweet Eve is in not typical because a cadre of medical people have determined that she is in need of some therapy to help her communicate and accept instructions from other people. She is in "la la" land and refuses to come out.

So, every day, her momma uses all sorts of techniques to try to urge her little girl out of "Eve World" and into the world of the community.
I am filling boxes with things like cups and beans and rice.
I'm making soap water for her to play in.
I'm reading her books.
I'm reading books ABOUT her special behavior.
There's a lot of time-outs and other discipline.
A lot of little girl screams.
A mountain of tantrums.

As hard as it is for a mother to say this, I realized that my precious daughter's behavior had become my cross.

When I think of the cross, I think of death.
Of something so big it crushes you.
I don't think of dimples and pig tails.

So this lenten season, I gave up any regular use of Facebook, the place where I tell all my troubles. I replaced it with Scripture and prayer.

I'd like to tell you that I had some high and holy moments, but the first two weeks were brutal.
I'd read Scripture. I'd weep. I'd smile. I'd meditate on Jesus.
Then Eve would wake up.
"Good morning, honey," followed by 12 hours of, um, "behavior modification."
I wanted to Facebook my frustrations. But no.
Quietness instead. Prayer. And some good, old-fashioned self control.

By week four I wasn't craving Facebook anymore. I loved the quiet place in my mind. I needed quiet. I needed to BE quiet.

The lenten season was a lot of work. A bit of suffering, yes. But mostly a lot of cleansing.

When Easter Sunday arrived, I didn't jump on Facebook right away. I waited. And when I did, my quiet mind could only offer these words "Easter joy."

My difficulties are still present, but so is Jesus.
We can do this.