Easter used to be new dresses and chocolate bunnies and baskets loaded with candy. Patent leather shoes pinched toes. Children searched under bushes for hidden colored eggs. Hymns celebrated an empty tomb. The warm smell of glazed ham and cheesy potatoes wafted throughout the house.
Now children are grown and on their own. No visits from the Easter bunny. No hidden stashes of chocolate. Home is silent except for snores of cats and tumbling clothes in the dryer.
This quiet gives me pause, and even though years ago I consciously stepped away from sitting in balcony pews on Sunday mornings, I acknowledge Easter as the story of redemption, of forgiveness, of hope.
Our messy, torn lives often invite judgement and accusations. We feel the scorn. We look in the mirror and hate what we see. How did everything get so hard? Where is the joy? Why is my story so wretched and tired and sad?
But then we take small, ragged breaths. We learn from the cracks which shine with gold, guiding us toward grace. Our scars are maps, no matter how fresh. We trace where we have been while knowing we’ll again get lost. New scabs appear. Our failures teach us patience. We slowly begin to forgive ourselves. This is our hallelujah.
None of this is easy. I hold grudges. I loathe imperfection in others as mine slithers across the road. My finger points. My tongue clucks. I’m damn awful. I’ve hurt others. I’ve betrayed confidences. I’ve stolen trust. I’ve hidden away from the truth. I’m human.
This is who we humans are: defective, troubled, flawed. Full of shit. Full of unfulfilled promises, even as we wash the wounds, slap on a new bandaid, and hope for healing. But we are also glorious in our brokenness and this is our hallelujah.
So on this Easter Sunday I am making a small vow to let go of at least one old hurt, to work on forgiving my own shitty transgressions, and to hold out a shaky hand to another who needs help up after a fall. This is my hallelujah.
“Over and over, in spite of our awfulness and having squandered our funds, the ticket-taker at the venue waves us on through. Forgiven and included, when we experience this, that we are in this with one another, flailing and starting over in the awful beauty of being humans together, we are saved.” Anne Lamott, Hallelujah, Anyway