Leaving the church Friday night after Good Friday service, where our pastor thankfully reminded us of the goodness, even greatness, of the day, I was feeling like a scoundrel. We left Him there and ran. We lied and doubted. We are weak souls. Shallow souls. This is the ever-nagging pull of the cross. Our awe at the Man who did take it. He had the same soul and understands our weakness. As does the Creator, who created it all. The fact that this Man was also God, as proven by the Resurrection and the Holy Spirit, gives you an appreciation for our God's courage, imagination, and perfectness. But, still, I was low and unworthy on Friday night. The $40 burger dinner afterwards at Fuddruckers didn't really help matters. Buns were a bit too sloppy and the tomotoes were suspect. Cranky, I was. A cheerleader routine later that evening had me smirking and by the time my wife joined in, I was picking out the music. The Traveling Wilbury's closed the performance with Where Were You Last Night. Songs from explorers. Never did completely shake the blues of the good, even great, night and went to bed occupied and sad.
Dead Saturday was a relief. Sure, Jesus has decended and is now facing down Satan, but the pain and blood is unseen. Seeing Him suffering man's rotten sin, is tough. Through our eyes and understanding. Pitiful good Friday. The actual act of dying witnessed by His own mother, and many others. Eleven cowardly diciples missed the event. Tangling with the devil is next. No one had a chance to write about that battle. Son of God is not as understood by us. If he took the beating, hanging, stabing, and burial of the previous day for us, imagine the weight of Saturday. Dead Saturday. I even went an extra 5 minutes on the bike machine in humble inspiration. We prayed longer for our Saturday late-morning meal to the point of distraction and sacrifice. Omlettes with buttery mushrooms and onions. I snuck a meaty piece of bacon. The smell of the breakfast kitchen was too much. A sip of coffee as my oldest prayed for Jesus. I sensed the women, all three, understood what was happening. Through the Saturday we tried to keep busy. Basketball, climbing, shopping, groceries, running, cheering, winning, catching-up, movie (the wimpy kid), popcorn, greasy shirt, showers, curlers, let the bread rise. Wanted to go to sleep early. Don't want to think about the last stages of the fight that started on Friday night.
Dreamed worriedly last night and woke to a cool, windless Easter morning. The Red Wheel Sweet Cinnamon French Braid turned out nice after a full night of rising. Yes, the bread rose just right. Everything settled. Jesus is gone. Come back and gone. He went on, back then, to appear to thousands. Humans since able to breathe in the Creator, the Savior, the Son of God, the Son of Man through the Holy Spirit. Easter is the day of validation. Everything is gonna be alright. He come and gone. Gone where I'm going to go. Like a big brother that takes off for life. Ever lasting life. I draw a huge knife from it's safe place and slice it across the main stalk of the broccoli. My in-laws like a choppier salad. Light, jazzy, and late, worship at Our Savior Lutheran await followed by a grateful lunchtable in the north Collin County countryside. Chocolate and ham destined to be the main memories of the day. Grandpa Jim collected around $35 in can money through the year to be hidden in plastic eggs. We'll scatter them around one acre of the 7-acre spread. Stockwell Acres. MaMa will watch from the porch and smile. Perhapes wave a hand. "Go on and get 'em. Ha!". She understands the battle that was fought and won. She is still fighting death, as we all are. This is her 95th Easter morning. I wonder how she made her macaroni and cheese so crusty.
Dead Saturday was a relief. Sure, Jesus has decended and is now facing down Satan, but the pain and blood is unseen. Seeing Him suffering man's rotten sin, is tough. Through our eyes and understanding. Pitiful good Friday. The actual act of dying witnessed by His own mother, and many others. Eleven cowardly diciples missed the event. Tangling with the devil is next. No one had a chance to write about that battle. Son of God is not as understood by us. If he took the beating, hanging, stabing, and burial of the previous day for us, imagine the weight of Saturday. Dead Saturday. I even went an extra 5 minutes on the bike machine in humble inspiration. We prayed longer for our Saturday late-morning meal to the point of distraction and sacrifice. Omlettes with buttery mushrooms and onions. I snuck a meaty piece of bacon. The smell of the breakfast kitchen was too much. A sip of coffee as my oldest prayed for Jesus. I sensed the women, all three, understood what was happening. Through the Saturday we tried to keep busy. Basketball, climbing, shopping, groceries, running, cheering, winning, catching-up, movie (the wimpy kid), popcorn, greasy shirt, showers, curlers, let the bread rise. Wanted to go to sleep early. Don't want to think about the last stages of the fight that started on Friday night.
Dreamed worriedly last night and woke to a cool, windless Easter morning. The Red Wheel Sweet Cinnamon French Braid turned out nice after a full night of rising. Yes, the bread rose just right. Everything settled. Jesus is gone. Come back and gone. He went on, back then, to appear to thousands. Humans since able to breathe in the Creator, the Savior, the Son of God, the Son of Man through the Holy Spirit. Easter is the day of validation. Everything is gonna be alright. He come and gone. Gone where I'm going to go. Like a big brother that takes off for life. Ever lasting life. I draw a huge knife from it's safe place and slice it across the main stalk of the broccoli. My in-laws like a choppier salad. Light, jazzy, and late, worship at Our Savior Lutheran await followed by a grateful lunchtable in the north Collin County countryside. Chocolate and ham destined to be the main memories of the day. Grandpa Jim collected around $35 in can money through the year to be hidden in plastic eggs. We'll scatter them around one acre of the 7-acre spread. Stockwell Acres. MaMa will watch from the porch and smile. Perhapes wave a hand. "Go on and get 'em. Ha!". She understands the battle that was fought and won. She is still fighting death, as we all are. This is her 95th Easter morning. I wonder how she made her macaroni and cheese so crusty.