The Resurrection
It’s been a week and a half since Easter, but my thoughts on resurrection have only continued to mount atop the horse of thought. A combination of inspired speakers, babies being born, people facing death and the verdant hope of new beginnings has lead me to a place of considering what this whole resurrection thing really looks like in daily form.
Most of my life has been spent believing in this one, omnipotent event of Jesus’ death. Don’t get me wrong, it’s important. Even if you don’t subscribe to the Jesus message, it’s hard to deny that his death rocked the world’s timeline and left an indelible mark on humanity. But what is it about his death, and subsequent resurrection, that’s so evocative?
Deep in the core of our humanity, I believe we are good, that we were created out of Love, and worthy to receive it. We are believers in second chances, rooting for the underdog. Jesus, although divine, was somewhat of an underdog to his critics and followers alike. He rode in on a donkey. Nothing screams savior more than a hippie looking dude on a donkey. When Jesus died, his followers lost hope. They couldn’t fathom how anything could rise out of physical death, or why someone who said he was so powerful would just die. Our human mind, although inspired by redemption stories, has a hard time wrapping our brain around miraculous recoveries and events. So, when the tomb was empty and Jesus started rubbing elbows with his tribe again, it must have felt like all things were possible again, like the underdog, and goodness and love did win.
6 years ago, on Easter, I was alone, and not just like I spent the day by myself, but my marriage was in shambles. We separated at a time of year when everyone is bubbling with the new life of Spring and promise of this whole resurrection business. I wasn’t really into it, to be honest. I was grieving, questioning, grasping for strands of hope anywhere I could find them, but it seemed the last strand had been tied to the back of someone else’s more worthy relationship, leaving mine completely unbound with all its gnarly guts exposed.
I could not imagine my marriage resurrecting, being what I dreamt of on my wedding day. I could not imagine living a life free of guilt, knowing that I had some part in my daughter living with divorced parents. I could not imagine being worthy of another man. I could not find grace.
I walked into Flood Church for Easter service alone. It was only my second time being there, and at that time, I knew that I needed a place that would accept a divorced, single mom and provide a welcoming environment for an energetic 3-year old. I don’t know that I’ve felt the sting of loneliness as much as I did sitting in those frigid auditorium chairs: babies, couples, church music and youth all over the damn place - and me, resigned to being alone. But, something brought me there. I basically cried the entire service, subtly trying to wipe tears and not blubber to the masses. Part of me wanted to hide, part of me wanted to just scream, “HELP ME!”
At the end of the service, they had a dance. I am not a dancer, and when it comes to churches trying to be relevant, it can often feel forced and cheesy. I clearly misjudged this dance. I wish that I could explain what it was like to be sitting there, to be watching this young woman parlay a story of defeat into one of healing, through movement. I felt every undulation, every expression upon her face. The song accompanying the dance kept repeating, “Can I be healed?” Can I? Can you?”
Perhaps because it was Easter, or the dance, or the message, or just the shreds of grace I was able to gather up during that hour, but I left feeling clean. Those little shreds of grace, held together with the salve of love, patched pieces of my heart and story just enough to keep hope alive. In a small way, I was resurrected.
Six years later, sitting in that same auditorium for Easter service, next to the very man I had lost all hope in, and then been restored, I realized that Resurrection isn’t reserved just for Easter, just for Christians, or any one group. Resurrection is everywhere, everyday. It’s in the child healed from sickness. It’s in the addict finding recovery. It’s in the family finding forgiveness. It’s in the sweet transition from life to death. It’s emerging from Winter and shedding the layers. It’s in the generosity of a stranger. It’s in the arms of a trusted friend who holds you while you weep. It’s in the middle-aged person starting a new career. It’s in the divorced woman pulling up her big girl panties and getting shit done. It’s in the quivering voice of someone’s honest confession, and the brazen voice of every person that says I AM WORTHY. It’s in the restoration of a lifeless marriage, even my own.
Perhaps Jesus’ message isn’t just about believing in him (or else), but about believing that resurrection is a daily occurrence. What if we opened up to the audacity of resurrection, that everything, from the most broken heart to a dormant flower can experience new life? It may not look the same as it used to, it may be unexpected and bring with it a loving dose of life lessons, but all things can be made new, grow again, and, even be healed.
One of the things I appreciate about the Jesus story is that he rose with stigmata, a reminder of what he went through, and how it changed everything. I used to think life’s wounds were a burden to be worn heavy upon my shoulders, touted to the world as one glorious pity party for me, and me only. But, with grace and time, I’ve learned to reach out and get help lifting the weight off my shoulders. I’ve learned to put it down, and, instead of letting it hinder me, make it a small, foundational step towards a resurrected Kelly, a Kelly marked, but also healed.
I just spoke to my daughter and said, “Death is a part of life. Life is a part of death.” One things does not die without somehow nourishing another thing with the ashes of its past. I’m still not sure how or why this whole humanity thing is the way it is, but I do know this: You can be healed.