Today is Resurrection Monday.
Yesterday was Easter, and I cried. It was a small thing that triggered it on top of something else that happened the night before. That sparked a cascade of past hurts. You know how that happens.
I haven’t even cried during Covid. Well, until until yesterday. We live a pretty quiet, mostly introverted life anyway, so not a lot is different for us. Except that my husband works from home now. And except for all the lovely plans we’d made for last month and the weekend that were cancelled. And except for this carb fever, and that the scale has no pity. I haven’t shed a tear over any of that disappointment. Not that my husband being home all.the.time. is a disappointment, though it IS a bit of a challenge. But I hadn’t cried over any of it.
Maybe the small thing and the other thing just ignited some bottled sorrow and concern for the current state of things–for those who have lost loved ones, for those who have lost jobs and paychecks, for those who fear losing loved ones or jobs, for leaders who must make hard decisions, for those doing battle on the front lines, for immunocompromised loved ones. Maybe it was like pushing that grill trigger button that sparks the gas and creates a mini explosion. Maybe it triggered some pent-up grief for the lot of it–maybe even some anticipatory grief of what the future could bring. Maybe even for us. We are healthy “elderly/seniors,” though we fight the label. But for sure our immune systems are undoubtedly compromised simply because of age. What happens when things return to “normal,” and we’re released from isolation? When I imagine my death, I imagine celebrating at least a centennial birthday and then passing on from old age, maybe a cancer of some sort. Never “just” a virus.
But yesterday was Easter. And though I was soooo tired because I didn’t get to sleep until about 3 a.m., I think it really was one of the most meaningful of Easters. It was quiet–just the two of us. No Easter bunny or baskets or candy or colored eggs (though I had pickled some) or big family dinner. But we participated in our church’s streaming service, then watched Franklin Graham and Michael W. Smith in Central Park. The tears started and stopped. After that I checked into Easter messages from past pastors. I took a nap. We watched the Sight and Sound Theater production of Jesus I had recorded.
All day I listened to messages of hope delivered to empty churches and yet there seemed to be more people connection. Our pastor talked about “redemptive longings” and how knowing and believing in the resurrection gives hope in the face of loss. Even in the shadow of a virus there is hope.
And the pope talked about a contagion of hope.
Later we went out to the “swamp.” I really should start calling it a marsh because that’s the part we mostly walk in. We watched the sun go down and saw a couple of moorhens escape a gator seeking supper. Well, the first one escaped intact, but we aren’t entirely sure about the other one. That was a new thing as we rooted for the birds. Most of the time we walked in silence, and I thought about Jesus.
We came home and ate strawberry shortcake and I went to bed early.
But today is Resurrection Monday. I joined our church in its daily online devotional. I took a shower. I brushed my hair and smiled at my gray roots. I applied a little–just a little–makeup, slipped in some earrings, and put on a cute sundress. Okay, so it’s really just a swimsuit coverup, but it’s not getting much use in these days of closed pools and beaches. Maybe I’ll even spend some time with an exercise DVD later. Maybe.
Because today is Resurrection Monday, and the sun never goes down on the resurrection. And there’s always hope. And one day there will be no more tears.