Our Easter
We celebrate Easter differently than many people. For the ninth year straight, we have spent months upon months preparing for and are now all up in the middle of the Easter drama at our church. Brandon handles microphones, music, and sound. I handle, well, just lots of stuff, and mostly do the jobs no one else wants to do.
The preparation is, at times, a pain. Keeping it real, y'all. But once we get to performance time and the huge, humbling experience of sharing the story of Jesus with over a thousand members of the community and beyond, God takes over. And it never fails to be amazing and real. To stop being a burden and become a blessing that helps define our lives. To knit a hundred of our church members family-tight, serving as the body of Christ. To remind us of what Easter is and what Jesus did and that the grace given on that hill so long ago is enough to make you dizzy with unworthiness.
It's different. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.
It means more to me this year than last. Last year, sadness and loss still raw and the hours and hours of work went beyond burden to punishment. But somehow it's new right now and the story of restoration is taking my breath away once again.
One of my tasks is to work the curtains. Or shall I say, one of my tasks was to work the curtains. I've trained Trey and basically worked myself out of a job. How amazing to share this with my son, our weird way of rejoicing over Easter's empty tomb, stuck in a dark and hot and sometimes smelly two-square-foot space, peeking around set for cues and ropes rubbing over already-blistered hands. Passing down servanthood is overwhelming, and I cannot wait for Aden to join us.
Being in the curtain hole, obviously, doesn't offer the full picture of the drama. But we see things. Some that no one else sees, close-up faces of a Mary Magdalene having just seen her risen Lord or unbridled joy on the face of a disciple whose feet were just bathed by the Master. Oh, the foot washing scene. I can't even breathe. I'm Peter. Lord, you will never wash my feet. Why on earth would you? I am dirt. I am nothing. What? No part with you? Then Lord, not just my feet, but my hands and my head as well. Please, Jesus. Wash me all over, whiter than snow, because I cannot live if I don't have a part with you.
Kills me every time.
Those are my words, of course. We don't change scripture. But anyway, here is what is seen from the curtain hole, at least for this year. It's Easter for us, another precious reliving of a story that can't get old.
Thank you, Jesus.
The preparation is, at times, a pain. Keeping it real, y'all. But once we get to performance time and the huge, humbling experience of sharing the story of Jesus with over a thousand members of the community and beyond, God takes over. And it never fails to be amazing and real. To stop being a burden and become a blessing that helps define our lives. To knit a hundred of our church members family-tight, serving as the body of Christ. To remind us of what Easter is and what Jesus did and that the grace given on that hill so long ago is enough to make you dizzy with unworthiness.
It's different. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.
It means more to me this year than last. Last year, sadness and loss still raw and the hours and hours of work went beyond burden to punishment. But somehow it's new right now and the story of restoration is taking my breath away once again.
One of my tasks is to work the curtains. Or shall I say, one of my tasks was to work the curtains. I've trained Trey and basically worked myself out of a job. How amazing to share this with my son, our weird way of rejoicing over Easter's empty tomb, stuck in a dark and hot and sometimes smelly two-square-foot space, peeking around set for cues and ropes rubbing over already-blistered hands. Passing down servanthood is overwhelming, and I cannot wait for Aden to join us.
Being in the curtain hole, obviously, doesn't offer the full picture of the drama. But we see things. Some that no one else sees, close-up faces of a Mary Magdalene having just seen her risen Lord or unbridled joy on the face of a disciple whose feet were just bathed by the Master. Oh, the foot washing scene. I can't even breathe. I'm Peter. Lord, you will never wash my feet. Why on earth would you? I am dirt. I am nothing. What? No part with you? Then Lord, not just my feet, but my hands and my head as well. Please, Jesus. Wash me all over, whiter than snow, because I cannot live if I don't have a part with you.
Kills me every time.
Those are my words, of course. We don't change scripture. But anyway, here is what is seen from the curtain hole, at least for this year. It's Easter for us, another precious reliving of a story that can't get old.
Thank you, Jesus.
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