I walked down to my neighbor's house to do a front porch picture for her family today. She texted me a few days ago because her son- one of Milo's buddies- has been hedging his conversations lately with things like, "If I die from corona virus..." Later one night, he had asked her if they could take a picture of the four of them as a family. He wanted to have a picture to keep in case something happened to one of them.
Death is probably more in the forefront of our minds than we'd like right now, but it's not just the statistics that are causing us to suck in our breaths. It's the loss of a way of life that we know will never go back to being what it was. It's not just that we didn't get closure, it's that we didn't fully recognize how much we would need it until it was too late. We've all died a thousand different deaths this past month, tried to absorb the shock, wanted to numb the pain, and have desperately looked for any signs that there's light on the other side of this. On a weekend when we would usually busy ourselves with brunches and family time, egg hunts, and sunrise services- instead, our calendars are painfully open. Our breaths, bated. How long until we can truly exhale?
I wonder, was this how Mary Magdalene felt? When she didn't know that Sunday was coming and everything in her world had become instantly unfamiliar and disorienting- did she lose track of the days and hours, too? In the aftermath of the cross, how many times did she let herself unravel and then square back up? This is the part of the Easter story that's been sitting with me these past two days.
Because if the cross is about redemption, then hope is- and always will be- about resuscitation.
Keep getting up. Keep starting over. And keep watching for the Light.