Good Friday and The Empty Egg

Image by Negrobike from Pixabay

I originally posted this in April of 2020, but I'd like to share it with you, again. 

Good Friday. We call the day good even though it represents horrific suffering and death. 

It is the day God offered his only Son in exchange for our salvation and Christ accepted on our behalf. There is no greater love.  

An anonymous Scripture professor suggested we not look at the cross only as a symbol of Christ's suffering but also a sign of how much he loved.  

This story brought the truth of Good Friday and Easter to life in a way I have never forgotten.  

 

The Empty Egg 

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children. 

Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.

 All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened, there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass, then the last egg was opened. It was Philip's, and it was empty! Some of the children made fun of Philip. "But, teacher," he said, "teacher, the tomb was empty." 

A newspaper article announcing Philip's death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, "The tomb was empty."

Marion D. Hanks, CR, April 1992, p. 12.

For God so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son; that whosoever believeth in him may not perish but have life everlasting. John 3:16

Because of Good Friday, all our tombs will be empty. 

Amen! Hallelujah!  

From Devastation to Joy

Last Sunday, my husband announced he is allergic to my oil paints. Painting has been a passion since I was twelve, right along with my writing. Besides that, I have hundreds of dollars invested in my art supplies. Not an easy thing to throw out or give up, but my husband’s health is more important.

Still, I couldn’t help my spiraling emotions, and I took all my paintings down, unable to look at them.

Later, after my thoughts settled, my husband and I looked for a solution, starting with an outside art studio. However, the building, electricity and heating and cooling proved cost prohibitive.

More research revealed the solvents, more than the paints, caused allergies. Not only that, but they are also highly toxic. A little more digging discovered water-soluble oil paint. They clean with water and a soap rather than the harsh solvents. Another bonus, my local art stores carry every color I could want along with water soluble mediums to replace my paint thinner and painting medium.

However, although they are non-toxic, my sources said they still have some odor, which may bother my husband even though they aren’t toxic.

My husband suggested looking at some better ventilation for my studio. The simplest and least expensive is a window exhaust fan. We found one that is powerful enough to clear the odors from my studio for a reasonable price, $40. With a little DIY finagling to seal the gap between the window and fan, we found a solution. (And my paintings are back on the walls.) 

The next day, my sweet husband took me shopping to restock my painting supplies, never batting an eye at the price tag, a little over $150. Cheap considering how many tubes of paint I’d accumulated over the years. I thanked him for his support and willingness to help me find (and fund) a way for me to continue my art. It still pained me to pack all my regular oil paints and mediums into a bag to take to the toxic recycling bin at our waste transfer station, but the new paints mitigated the sting.

This is Passion Week, and my readings tell the story of Jesus’ passion and death. After my little disappointment, I have a tiny glimpse into how the disciples must have felt on Easter after the horrors of Calvery.

I’m sure there will be many more mini-Calvery moments in my life until I find the eternal joy of Easter when I meet Jesus in heaven.

Until then, I am thankful for the earthly joys I am blessed with, beginning with my husband and his love and generosity. I’ll never take it for granted and will work hard to return it in kind. Then, if you truly love someone, being kind and generous isn’t a burden but a joy.

Thank you, Lord, for loving us enough to give us both Calvery and Easter. Amen.

Happy and Blessed Easter to you!

I Can’t Believe I Did That!

Oh, but I did. Granted, I had been up most of the night with a sick puppy and I was tired, but it never happened with ailing kids. Hurrying was as much to blame, except I had rushed many times before without it happening. 

It was Palm Sunday, and I wanted to be at church a little early, but by the time I finished blow-drying my hair, all my extra time evaporated. I grabbed my coat and purse and bolted out the door to the truck.

Cars filled both parking lots, the roadway, and even the ditch banks. After several anxious minutes, I found space in the back forty, literally an open field. I parked along the edge and ran for the church.

I settled into a pew seconds before the service started. It was then I realized something didn’t feel right. My feet were too comfortable. I looked down. Yes,I  wore my house shoes instead of my dress flats.

At least they weren’t fluffy slippers. They were Sketchers, tennis shoe style scuffs, except I wouldn’t wear them to town with my jeans let alone to church with my dress slacks. I wanted to run home, change and come back, but reason vetoed the idea. It wasn’t worth missing any part of the service. God didn’t care what kind of shoes I wore, only that I came.

I tried to concentrate on the service, but my mind wouldn’t let go of the fact I had worn what I considered my slippers to church. How could I have done such a thing? Was it the onslaught of dementia? Had I crossed over the line and become senile? 

I glanced at the woman in the opposite pew. Low and behold, she had on the exact same shoes. I smiled. As the old saying goes, misery loves company, but I suspect that woman wore her Sketchers intentionally. 

Regardless, I relaxed and thanked God for being so compassionate to a silly old woman and concentrated on our pastor’s sermon. 

“Jesus took Barabbas’s place on the cross.” He repeated that sentence. “Barabbas went free. Think about that. We are Barabbas, and we are set free.”

At that moment, I didn’t think about dementia, old age, or shoes. I am a Child of God, so loved he chose to die for me in order that I could share in his Resurrection.  

Amen. Hallelujah.

I Believe

Photo by bela_kiefer at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Easter. Jesus has risen. We’ve heard that over and over again. We’ve read the scriptures. We’ve attended the sunrise services. But there is more. 

I am re-posting this for those who may need to read it again, and for those who might not have seen it. It bears repeating, time and again. 

The Resurrection is real. Jesus is real. He is not the figment of anyone’s imagination. I know. I’ve seen him. 

It happened on Palm Sunday. It was one of those lazy mornings.  I sat at the kitchen table enjoying my coffee, and a rare moment of quiet. Everyone else was asleep, even the dog and our three cats. Peace. 

Rather than disrupt it, I decided not to rouse everyone for church. Instead, I would read the scripture of the Passion and meditate.

This time, the often-read words took on a personal meaning. God didn’t die for faceless mankind. He died for me. For my sins. In my place. Willingly. I laid my head on the table and wept. 

Easter Will Never Be the Same

I watched the movie, The Passion, for the first time this week. I had been warned it was brutal and was prepared for the graphic content. The viciousness with which Jesus was tortured was well portrayed by the actors. They laughed at His  agony, obviously getting great pleasure from His suffering. The old pun certainly applied: they added insults to His injuries. I couldn't help but think how He could have humbled them in an instant, but that wasn't His purpose. Not only was he atoning for our sins, He was setting an example of what true love is: how we are to love our enemies. 

At His death, the earthquake shook the ground, and thunder and lightening rent the sky. His tormentors were no longer laughing. I laughed. "Ah ha! You aren't laughing now, are you? Serves you right!"  The moment I uttered those words, I remembered His words, "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Jesus forgave the men who took pleasure in torturing Him, laughing as He lay in agony.  His words of forgiveness must have astounded those standing close enough to hear. Tortured beyond what was humanly possible to endure, and yet asking God to forgive those responsible. In a culture conditioned to an eye for an eye it must have seemed unthinkable. Even in our kinder, gentler society this is hard.

Imagine a Holocaust survivor forgiving the camp commandant and their guards. And what about the men who tortured Daniel Pearl in such a horrific manner? Forgive them as well? I struggle with the idea, yet, this is exactly what Jesus has done. As for myself, I forgave my ex-husband for those years of abuse - and meant it - but I did not ask God to forgive him, nor have I prayed for him. I fell two steps short of God's example.


Easter will never be the same. I can no longer just pass off the mental idea of  they mocked Him, or deny the other reality: had He had died in any other way, it would not have been so life changing, thought provoking, heartrending. It leaves me with no other choice than to work harder at truly living my Christian faith.

It Happened On Easter

After years of exposure through the flower shop, I became extremely allergic to Easter Lilies.  My eyes watered, my skin broke out in hives, and breathing became difficult. Even walking past them in the grocery store elicited a reaction. Easter Sunday would be a huge challenge as my church would be filled from door to altar with lilies.

Having never missed an Easter Sunday service, the thought of not going was unacceptable. Yet, how was I going to overcome the issue with the allergy?

A good friend, and fellow florist, mentioned her church used silk lilies in deference to her. She sang in the praise team and was highly allergic to the beautiful flowers as well, and invited me to attend services with her and her family. Simple solution? Not really.

My church frowned on attending other services and I had never been to another church except for a wedding. Yet, I was already in turmoil with my church. My new husband was not a member of the church, nor wished to be. When I approached the church to have our civil vows, said in front of an African magistrate, repeated before a minister, my husband and I were the recipients of an inquisition. By the time we left the church I was in tears and my husband was further alienated from the faith.  I continued attending services, alone, but felt isolated and unaccepted. Then came Easter Sunday.

After a night of agonizing, I accepted my friend's offer. I sat with her and her family, and should have been delighted to be with someone, and not alone as I would have been at my own church, but I wasn't. Looking around at all the families celebrating and worshiping together, broke my heart. Why had my life turned out this way? How did I end up in this mess? Because I chose to marry someone who did not share my faith. Certainly the marriage was perfect in every other aspect, and all the miracles surrounding it were undeniable, at that moment I felt Africa was my downfall.

The pastor started his sermon with a story. And old man and a young man were discussing faith.

The old man asked the younger one, "Would you follow God anywhere?"

"Yes," the young man replied.

"Would you follow Him into the deep south?"

"Yes."

"Would you follow Him to Albania?"

"Yes."

"Would you even follow Him to Africa?"

My heart stopped. To Africa? Yes. I would follow Him even to Africa.

The following day 1 Peter 3: 1 was in my devotions: In like manner let wives be subject to their husbands: that if any believe not the word, they may be won without the word, by the conversation of the wives.

I still don't pretend to fully understand this verse, or the reason for my life's path. All I can do is trust Him even though I am still attending Easter Services alone. Yet, there has been a slight change. My husband asks every Sunday if I am attending services. He asks afterward about the service, the music, and the sermon. I answer his questions, careful not to preach or push.

Easter Sunday is a day of hope, of belief in the impossible, and realization that we belong to a Father who loves us more deeply than we can love Him back. Can I not trust such a love and follow Him wherever he asks, even to Africa?

The Divine Embrace

In honor of this holy day, I have re-edited and re-posted this.

It happened on Palm Sunday.

One moment I was listening to the sermon, the next I was standing in a white void. I was not alone. Jesus was there. He opened His arms and beckoned me. I ran to Him and was enfolded into a tight embrace, my cheek pressed against His chest.

He was not spirit. He was flesh and bone. I could feel muscle, feel the strength in His arms as they held me closer. Surprisingly, His white garment wasn’t smooth, soft, as I expected. It was  coarse, like burlap, and I could feel the cloth pressing into the flesh of my cheek.  

The thought was fleeting, overpowered by a joy unlike anything I had ever experienced. I wanted nothing, needed nothing. There was no sorrow. No tears. No pain or anguish. The World didn't exist, only Him, only the ecstasy of being in His embrace. There are no words in our earthly language to describe what I felt and saw. This feeble attempt falls far short of the experience.

Unbidden and unwelcome, my past transgressions paraded against my closed eyelids. I wasn’t worthy of His embrace. How dare I touch Him? I drew back, my head hanging in shame.  

Gently, He urged me to look up. His eyes held no accusations, only unconditional love. He loved me just as I was, flawed and imperfect. It didn't matter how many times I failed, only how hard I tried. It was the effort that mattered.

The Man of Sorrows directed my gaze to my left. A huge pit of white-hot flames roared beneath black, roiling smoke. I could feel the intense heat from where I stood.

“Marie, you must walk through the flames.”

“I can’t! The pain will be too great.”

“You must, not as a punishment for your sins, but as a natural part of your life. You will endure great pain.”

Fearfully obedient, I stepped into the inferno and braced for a horrific blast of heat. I felt none. His hand reached through the flames and grasped mine. As long as I held onto Him - my faith - the flames would never burn me and He would be waiting on the other side.

The next moment I was back in my pew. I touched my cheek. The impression of His garment remained on my skin. The aura of peace, ecstasy, still lingered.

From that moment, He was with me in ways I had never experienced before. He was everywhere - in the smallest details of my life as well as the crises, the trials - the infernos. Granted, I felt a little heat now and then, but I was never burned. I set my eyes toward the other side, where He was waiting - for me