Secondhand resurrection...

We came home from Texas to a rodeo of sorts on the farm. The cows chose the week before Michael’s knee replacement surgery to break out, to run free through the grass that was greener on the other side. Every day until the fences were repaired, I was singing “Get Along, Little Doggie” while I shooed the cows from neighbor’s yards, our yards, or separated our bull, Bully, from Gary’s bull in the middle of “Mine is bigger than your’s” contests. After two weeks of this, the fun was gone and my voice grew shrill. Thanks to friends and some young hired help, the fences were reconstructed and the daily routine no longer includes a cattle drive.
Being one farmer down has meant I have had to care for the chickens, not one of my favorite animals. Daddy had Rhode Island Reds and they were my after school chore… feed, water, gather eggs. Perhaps it was the context of the beginning of our relationship, one that was decided for me not one of choice, that set the tone but I never felt much affection for the chickens. Michael and our grandsons love them. They are named, picked up and cuddled, chased and caught, celebrated with laughter and story. I am glad for them and the chickens but feel no guilt (well, maybe not much) about my lack of feeling connected to the chickens. After all, you can love animals (and people) without liking them much, right Mary Lynn?
All the activity of the past six weeks has left my soul gasping for breath. So much to do, not enough time to do it all, and spring, like the cows, busting out all over. Easter came and I was wrung dry. My dry bones were crying out for resurrection. I came to Easter worship scattered and brain dead.
The first hymn, Christ the Lord Has Risen Today, should be pitched and sung joyfully. Due to a major oversight on my part, the trombone accompaniment was in the key of C which was too low for everybody but Pastor Pat and other basses to sing. My soul staggered along as we sang, passed the peace, shared celebrations and concerns, prayed, read scripture, listened to the sermon and I waited for Easter to come. Finally it did during the offering.
Marquasia, a young African American girl, stood in front of the church, dressed in her best Easter finery, to sing our special music. She looked at me. I smiled and began the introduction. Swing low, Sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home… a song I have known and loved since childhood… Her voice barely made it to the back row but her joy and pride in singing were loud and clear. The congregation joined in softly and suddenly, in the harmony of the moment, Easter came rushing in. There we were…young and old, black and white, all of us dressed in the best we had to offer… gathered together waiting on a resurrection we aren’t sure will come.
Reading the four very different accounts of the resurrection in the gospels, I feel the scattered lostness of the disciples. Their world has come crashing down and nothing is left to show for the years they have invested in Jesus and his mission. Huddled together for comfort, they sit and wait, not sure what will come next. And when it comes, they don’t recognize it, don’t believe it. The women insist Jesus is alive, they have seen him but until he appears to them, the men can’t take their word for it. Secondhand resurrection stories are difficult to swallow. I am those disciples. I go through the motions, sit and wait, hear the words and can’t quite believe resurrection will ever come for me. Then I hear and see Marquasia sing and resurrection flows right over me, fills up the crannies in my soul and waters my parched spirit. Thanks be to God for the deserts and dry places, times of death and dark nights of the soul. Without them, how could we see and feel the power of new life, the return of light after darkness and the blooming buds of a soul coming into full flower again? It is no longer a secondhand resurrection story but my story, my resurrection that teaches me there is more life to come than I can imagine. Thank you, Jesus…