I’m two days late, but what I have to say doesn’t fade with time, and sure isn’t limited to Resurrection Sunday.
We were sharply dressed on Sunday, a rarity for this crew. And we were color coordinated, which is even more rare, considering the unusual fashion choices my children often make. It’s my lone non-church related nod to Easter tradition because I’ll be honest here, I loathe Easter egg hunts. We avoid them at all costs.
Zoom in a little though, friends. Darling girl has pen marks all over her sweet little body. She’s her own favorite canvas. Second son’s pants are a tad high water, seeing as he’s in-between sizes (also I fished them out of the dirty clothes basket right before we left). I sat in meringue resurrection cookies on the way out the door and had a sticky bum all day. And isn’t all this is just a reflection of how we come to church on the inside? With pretty faces and broken hearts. With designer bags and crippling anxiety. With high heels and an ocean of grief.
A Sunday Kind of Love
Whatever your particular pain, Sundays are hard, friends, matching or not. More often than not, there are tears, whisper-yelling, and gritted teeth. Then we slide into church with smiles pasted on like we didn’t just threaten our children with bread and water until they graduate high school.
I’m undressed on the inside, raw from parenting, from moving preparations, from being safe harbor for the big emotions unfolding at our home every day. (All while I settle the storms of my own.) Raw and ragged from the backbreaking, breathtaking work of shepherding four souls. And I know I’m not alone.
I was sitting in church, on Resurrection Sunday – a day of rejoicing – and the thought occurred to me. “If I’m going to be undressed and ragged inside, church is the best place to be.” Not just padded pews and white steeple kind of church, but nestled in the body church. Community kind of church. Worshipping the Risen King together. Rejoicing, because HE IS WHO HE SAYS HE IS.
It changes EVERYTHING. It covers my bare and tattered soul with hope. He is RISEN. Resurrection Sunday doesn’t promise easy. It doesn’t promise comfort. It sure doesn’t promise long life and wealth on earth. But oh friends, it promises glory, the hope of glory, the advent of the King.
That is a Sunday kind of love for my raw and raggedy heart. The kind of love that knows I’m grasping at threads to stay sane in the ordinary extraordinary rhythms of our life, the kind of love that knows broken. A radical, sanctifying kind of love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. The kind of love worth dying for. The kind of love worth living for.
Go to church undressed this week. I promise it’s worth it.
Happy Resurrection Sunday.