Easter... A Beautiful Mess

Have you ever stopped to realize the inherent schizophrenia that surrounds the holiday weekend we call Easter?

 

Think about it: what originally began as a pagan fertility festival has morphed into a celebration of spring that slams smack into the death and resurrection of Jesus. The cross and crucifixion all tangled up with chocolate bunnies and painted eggs. Ham dinners baking to the tune of "Up From the Grave He Arose!”.

 

Easter has become a holy holiday that is not wholly holy. Egg-laying bunnies and cellophane grass juxtaposed with a crown of thorns and nail-scarred hands.

 

It's no wonder people get bent out of shape trying to make sense of it all. Those of us who enjoy our pretty pastel frocks and our calorie-laden Easter baskets are frowned upon by those who shun the commercialism of what is arguably the most religious of all religious holidays.

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I have nothing but wonderful memories of Easter as a child. I particularly remember the Easter Mom bought me my first 'big girl' dress. It was a pretty plaid dress with a full skirt and a fluffy petticoat that crinkled when I sat down and a tiny bells that jingled when I bounced. [Because nothing says 'Christ is Risen' like a jingling petticoat.] I remember how proudly I wore my white patent-leather shoes, even though they were hard to buckle and pinched my toes. I felt new and oh-so-shiny.

 

As the Mama of two boys, I  missed out on the fun of playing Easter Dress-Up with a daughter.  Still, I spared no preciousness in dressing my boys in matching outfits, while they were still too young and clueless to protest.

 

[To be honest, I live in fear that they will retaliate by dressing me in ugly polka dot moo-moos in the nursing home, when I am too old and clueless to protest.]

 

But now... now I have The Grand-Girl. The One Who Loves To Go Shopping.

 

This six-going-on-thirty-year-old describes her style as “not fancy like you, MiMi, but sporty... kinda like my Mama but more girly and not as matchy as my Nana.”

 

We went shopping for her Easter dress yesterday.

 

Four stores and several dollars later, I had managed to talk her into the cutest little spring blouse and matching skirt—but only if I agreed to buy the matching bike shorts, which I strongly suspected she would favor over the skirt.

 

And then she saw the shoes. Beautiful, glittery, shiny purple sandals.

“Oh MiMi... look at these shoes! They are EXACTLY the same color as the flowers on my shirt!  I really, really want them... I NEED them!!!

 

Did she? Did this six year old fashionista really need a pair of purple sandals?

 

Hardly.

 

Nor had she done anything to deserve them.  No more or than I had done anything to deserve my jingling petticoat or pretty patent leathers.

But then... do any of us really deserve Easter?

Absolutely not.

 

And therein lies the source of the schizophrenia.

You see, while Christmas is all about being jolly and singing carols and giving gifts, Easter has an ugly side. There is nothing pretty about a crucifixion. A man on a cross, humiliated and condemned, beaten and bloody.

 

It is hard to think about that innocent man hanging limply on the cross. Difficult to feel worthy of such a Gift of Love. While we crave the salvation He offers, we cringe at the sacrifice He made.

My heart breaks with every remembrance of the shredded flesh, the suffering sighs. The cross is so painful that I am in a hurry to rush through the torture and fast-forward to the resurrection.

 

I am swamped by the cross, undeserving of the Gift of Grace. And I thank God the story did not end on Golgotha.

Because, as much as I need a Savior who would die for a silly little girl in a crinkly petticoat... I need the resurrection more. I need to believe in an empty tomb and a risen Savior. I need the hope of a second chance. I need the glorious promise of Easter.

The plastic eggs and shiny shoes do not distract me from the message. To those who criticize the secularized aspects of this holy holiday, I would offer that your energy is wasted in judgement.

Easter is not about who worships Jesus the best. It is about remembering God's promise of hope and celebrating  joy that comes in the morning.

There is a song by Amy Grant that I love... “Better than a Hallelujah”. My favorite verses are:

 

We pour out our miseries

 

God just hears a melody.

 

Beautiful the mess we are

 

The honest cries of breaking hearts.

 

Better than a hallelujah, sometimes.

 

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This year, I will celebrate Easter in every high and holy way, as well as with all the Cadbury Eggs that Weight Watchers will allow.

I will celebrate the melody that God makes of my miseries.

I will celebrate the blessed hope of the resurrection.

This Easter and every other day of my life, I will celebrate Jesus who lives in me and in the heart of my favorite little girl with the new purple sandals.

The Psalm of Homeostasis

Just as flowers turn their faces to the sunshine, I believe that our senses are sharpened to those things our souls long to seek.

 

Musicians seek harmony. Religionists seek righteousness. Spiritualists seek enlightenment. 

 

My sons are musicians, from their toes to their souls. As with all God-given gifts, their musicality was manifested early in life. In utero, in fact, for Lucas;  he used to hiccup in rhythm to the radio. And Jacob...I remember taking him to the doctor when he was in grade school. As we sat quietly in the waiting room, he began humming in perfect unison to the almost indiscernible sound of the central air unit. He looked over at me, smiled and said “Key of E”.

As a young boy, my husband's grieving soul was in desperate need of an anchor. After burying his father, he found himself adrift and alone, trying to come to terms with his grief, afraid to close his eyes and sleep. One night, in exhausted desperation, he begged God to give him a sign that his Dad was okay.  Dickie's grief turned to amazement as the lamp on his nightstand flickered off and on. Coincidence?  Nah. Power surge? Absolutely...from the very source of all power. On that loneliest of  nights, in the flickering light, a soul to soul connection was made. A young boy learned to trust Jesus--literally and lastingly--and became a man whose life is focused on strengthening that sustaining connection. 

Me? I can't remember a time when my imagination was not filled with the wonder of Glory. I've always felt as strongly connected to the spiritual world as I do to Terra firma. In fact, my  worldly tethers  are so tenuous that I often find my head perched precariously in the clouds...a lofty position that might not be appealing to everybody, but one that works very well for me.

In all kinds of strangely wonderful, divine and substantial ways, my soul always finds what it is seeking.

Words. They come to me out of the blue.  Sometimes as half-formed concepts or phrases, sometimes as a single unit of thought. It usually happens to me right before I wake up.  Seemingly random thoughts bump about the edges of my consciousness like brightly colored balloons skipping across the Panhandle sky. Other times, they come to me when I'm alone in the car.  Not like, just sitting by myself, parked in the garage--though that would be more convenient.  [Why is  it that the best ideas or the most profound thoughts only come when you are busy doing other things...like trying to sleep, or singing a symphony in the shower, or attempting to steer through wind gusts of 60 mph?]

I have occasionally tried to ignore them. But inevitably, there are one or two that refuse to float away, demanding that I grab hold and pay attention. These are the thoughts and/or words that make their way onto yellow sticky notes or the back of a grocery receipt. Nebulous thoughts hastily jotted down and shuffled around until sense can be made, understanding can be found.

So...you think I'm crazy? You may be right.

 

 

But before those nice young men in their clean white coats come to take me away, consider this:  it just may be a lunatic you're looking for.  

 

Wacky though it may seem, experience has taught me to pay attention. To give weight to these subconscious utterings. To patiently seek understanding. To connect the dots and determine just what life is trying to teach me. And by 'life', I mean God.

The word of the week?  HOMEOSTASIS

 

[ho·me·o·sta·sis (h m - -st s s). n. 

 

1. The maintenance of metabolic equilibrium within an animal by a tendency to compensate for disrupting changes. 

2.  The maintenance of equilibrium within a social group, person, etc.]

 

Along with being an airhead, I also happen to be a bit of a science nerd. [Bipolar, I know.]  I have studied homeostasis and have an in-depth understanding of the word in a biological sense. When a body (organism) is in homeostasis, all systems and functions are in balance. Temperature is 98.6, blood pressure is normal, toes are polished, etc.

“So...” (I asked myself), “What does this mean on a spiritual level? Where do I need to attain homeostasis within my life?”

For the past few years, I have been on a quest for peace. Just like that sunshine-seeking flower, my soul seeks peace. I believe the most profound way I can demonstrate faith and honor God is to not merely accept His perfect gift of peace, but to believe in it. To live it. To close my eyes at night, wake up to a rumpled reflection in the morning mirror and know that---indeed---it is well with my soul.

Peace...it is a formidable soul goal.

Yet, even in a world that delights in bombarding us with negativity and strife, a world where friends are hurting, loved ones are dying, fools are plentiful and judgment is swift, God not only offers me peace...He leads me to it.

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I anticipated waking up all crabby this morning, deprived of an hour of sleep from the 'spring forward' time change. Instead I woke up feeling...peaceful.

 

Just after awakening, I remembered dreaming of a small girl's hands resting inside the aged, wrinkled hands of her Grandmother's. It was an image I had seen recently on Facebook...a beautiful photograph that had tugged at my heartstrings and found its way into my dreams.

 

 

As I sat my cup of hot tea on the table, a bit of it sloshed onto my yellow sticky note--the note on which I had scrawled 'Homeostasis' a few days ago... 

 

And just like that, the dots were connected. His meaning became clear.

The years rolled away and I remembered holding hands with my sweet grandmother Flodie, repeating the prayer she had taught me as a little girl.  The favorite prayer of a faithful Flodie which epitomizes the Gift of Peace...

 

 

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want;

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside still waters;

He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness

for His name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,

I fear no evil;

for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life;

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord.

Forever.

Psalms 23
 

Homeostasis restored. 

LOST IN TRANSLATION

DISCLAIMER: This story contains incorrectly named male and female body parts and a trip to the gynecologist. 

 

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I am a trained health care professional. Okay, I'm a physical therapist...but hey, it counts.

It is safe to say that I have seen all kinds of internal and external body parts in various stages of distress and/or disease, previously unimaginable to me. Throughout all my wound care training, I never fully appreciated just where the treatment of say...a pilonidal abscess...might take me. (Yeah, Google that one. Enlarge the photo.)

Suffice it to say, after all my latex-gloved hands and I have been through, it takes a lot to shock or embarrass me.

Yet, when it comes to talking about genitalia and whatnot, I have somehow managed to hang on to all the unsophisticated silliness of an eleven-year old schoolgirl.

Oh, I can put on a good show and fake the correct use of medical terminology like a pro. But the twinkle in my eye, or perhaps my ginormous grin, always gives me away.

 

I blame this lack of maturity and professionalism on the shoddy level of sex education I received from my equally unsophisticated parents and the Borger Independent School system.

How many of you remember those awful 'coming of age' movies we were forced to see in 5^th grade health classes? Remember how embarrassing they were, and how we avoided eye contact with each other the entire day of The Movie? Boys weren't allowed to see ours and vice versa. In fact, the classroom windows were covered with construction paper to deter peeping Toms or Tombelinas.

After I became the mother of  sons, I continued to shun correct anatomical nomenclature. As far as they knew, my baby boys did not have penises. They had 'ding-dongs', 'tallywackers' and 'wickerbills'. These cutely benign names for their cutely benign privates worked very well for us, until the day I came in with an armload of baskets. “What are those?” my youngest male-child asked. “They are 'wicker' baskets, for my collection.” I replied. He shrieked, ran straight into the bathroom and locked the door. He refused to come out until Dickie came home, then he ran straight into his father's arms and held on for dear life. “Mom has WICKER baskets, Dad! She bought a whole bunch of 'em!! She's gonna collect our WICKERbills!!!”.

You might think I would have made an effort to improve my parenting skills after that unfortunate incident. More importantly, you might think my son would have learned to never trust me with any pertinent information regarding his junk.

But, no.

A few years later, it was his turn to be a 5^th grader and watch the awful health class video. As fate would have it, his Dad (who is even less mature than moi) was out of town on the day Jacob learned about puberty and maturation. I, however, was more than ready to stand in the gap. Just as that sweet boy came home from school, I rolled up my sleeves and got ready for The Talk.

ME: (nonchalantly) “So...did you learn anything good from The Video?” 

JACOB:  “Sorta. I'm gonna need deodorant, Mom.  I'm gonna get armpit hair.  It's gonna stink."

 

ME: “Gotcha.  Anything else? Any questions about your, uh...privates?”

 

JACOB: (with a nervous giggle) “Nah. Except...I didn't know it could, like...do different things.”

ME:  “Oh heck yeah. Guys have the fun body part. Kinda like a Swiss Army Knife: It's a knife, but it also has scissors and a toothpick and tools...multiple uses.”

 

This explanation seemed to make Jacob very happy. His Dad...? Not so much.

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I had to go in for my yearly gynecological checkup a few days ago. My gyno—although a lovely man—is my Second Least Favorite Person in the world to visit. My Number One Least Favorite Person to see is my dentist.  Ironical, as you soon will see.

It is important to keep in mind that after a woman's ovaries are on their last legs, any trip to the gyno is paved with humiliation. Beginning with the weigh-in.

 

I am pathetic.  Even before I start shucking clothes, the excuses began:

“I just got back from a cruise...might've packed on a few.”

“...but I have been working out, and my muscle weighs A LOT.”

“I have about 4 layers of polish on my nails, besides all that dead skin on my heels. Add all that together and I'm sure you can subtract at least a couple of pounds.”

After the number on those #^#% scales sent me to the depths of depression, I was given a Very Small, Very Thin, Very Short, Very Ugly gown with instructions to take off all my clothes and sit on a paper-covered examining table. Always a rebel, I refused to get completely naked. I kept my socks on.

 

[As all my sistas know, picking out clean, unholy, stirrup-appropriate socks is a very important part of pre-gyno-appointment preparation.]

There I was. My wiggly butt making crackly noises on the paper sheet, my ugly gown clasped tightly together, the last shreds of my dignity--my purple socks--covering my tightly crossed feet.

The door opened and in came the doctor, followed by his brightly smiling assistant. (Seriously, what does she have to smile about?)

They pulled out the stirrups and pushed me back on the uncomfortable table. As he prepared to get all up in my business, I heard the obnoxious voice of Joan Rivers ringing in my ear...“Dr. Gyno, at your cervix.”

“Any problems since last time?” He asked politely.

“Not really. Except...you know that little bumpy thing? It sometimes gets sore after we have wild monkey sex.” (Okay, to the best of my recollection, I didn't really say the 'wild monkey' part.)

“What 'bumpy thing' do you mean?” he asked patiently.

“You know...my uvula.” I answered.  Professional to Professional. 

 

All of a sudden, everything got reeeeeal quiet. Dr. Gyno looked at his nurse, his nurse looked back at him, then they both looked at me.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“Er...I think you were referring to your urethra.” He said, without even cracking a grin.

 

“Oh. Ha. Haha. Yes, my urethra. Ha. A sore uvula would be a whole different issue, huh? Haha.” I said, in complete and total mortification.

 

Seriously, it is SO much easier to explain a wickerbill...