Stella is 30

One of the gifts of finding God again is that I survived a hard day and didn’t crumble.  Yesterday was Stella’s 30th birthday, the 4th anniversary of her wedding and coincidentally, 4 years since I have seen my daughter.  While aching over the loss of this relationship, I was still able to celebrate her life and her presence on this earth. And I found joy.  All day joy as we cavorted with Plum, listening to giggles and chatter.  A bustling day as we sought ways to be occupied that didn’t involve screens on an unexpectedly unseasonably cold day.  We survived.

As we created 8 different colors of slime, as the glue plopped on the table and the food coloring stained our wooden island, I ached over the grandchildren who are not so indulged by grandparents who would foster a curiosity about science as well. As we coated the floor in baby powder to ensure maximum slipperiness, I imagined the day the house is filled with little feet sliding through the room.  As we bowled at the local university lanes and Chef gave up his turns to provide the most opportunities for Plum to practice, I could almost hear the lessons given to all the little girls who have yet to be taught by a patient grandpa.  I trust that one day we will be granted those chances, that our table will be surrounded by family again. I trust.

As I stole away a few minutes to crochet and consider all that my heart was wishing for, the boys took extra skein of yarn and created a disaster of traps upstairs, a tribute to the recent Home Alone binge Plum has enjoyed. Even as I reflected on the ones who were not filling my home, the ones who wouldn’t eat a cake or pie I made to celebrate this milestone birthday, the laughter filtered back down the stairs and into my soul. We love the ones who present, we beg God to bring the others back around. I knew my son was watching from above, relishing the ways we allow his own son to experience joy and fun and learning even as the messes pile up.  We kept living.

I don’t know what it will take, I fear what that might be, in order for her to call, text, email me again. I am sure though that one day it will happen and I will rejoice, forgetting the hurts as we begin anew. I will remember then as I do now all the years that preceded the estrangement, I will focus on the travels and parties and the every days that create a lifetime, that fill scrapbooks and facebook memories. I will glorify the One who builds bridges.

Happy 30th birthday my Stella, my Miss Pie.  I love you most, I love you forever. I imagined your day as you were the center of attention, as you ate some Boston Cream pie and taught your daughters to see their mom as a person also, one who is worthy of celebration and honor. Also, I pray you didn’t have to have pork chops for dinner. When you come back home, I will make your whatever you want, will welcome you as the prodigal daughter, we will feast and rejoice.  Until then, I know God has you.

Arrow Graduated

The first Sunday in November our church recognizes those who have passed on to be with God during the previous 12 months. A picture appears on the screen, a chime rings out as the name is spoken with reverence. This year was personal, this year my son would appear on the screen, just another reminder of what I was missing, how my heart was crushed by this grief. I knew it would be impossible to endure the service without tears, I didn’t expect the sobs that overtook me. More than the memorial services, this was the evidence that he is no longer with us. Yet something unexpected has happened since that chime rang out, since my smiling boy graced the screen. I saw not only what I have lost but what he has gained.

Most of these 11 months I have been angry at God, questioning why He didn’t save Arrow one more time. I felt tricked into believing in His power, I felt abandoned in my love for this child. When my pastor spoke about those people who all appeared on the screen, he opened my soul to a different perspective. Like a group of high school seniors, receiving their diplomas, ready to enter into the next phase of their journey, all those people on the screen, this class of saints, had entered into heaven. I saw the pictures of those my Arrow had joined, there were some real rock stars of the faith in his class. He is in amazing company. Further, my pastor reminded me that Arrow is no longer hindered by the demon of addiction, he is living his best life whole, without misery and pain and sorrow. He is finally who I knew he could be.

I heard a whisper this morning, a question from God, asking if I could see that He had had saved my boy. I realized that God had truly ached alongside us as we worried and cried and prayed for Arrow’s safety, for his freedom from drugs and alcohol. I heard God say, “Lisa, we tried everything and I knew it was time to bring him home, bring him closer to me. I will protect him for eternity. He is safe now.  You will one day see his smile, hear his laughter and you will rejoice as well.”  I know it sounds crazy, I rely on others to hear from our God, my hearing loss has been acute when it comes to the voice of God. Yet, still… today I heard the reassurance from the one who has suffered my anger and nudged others to comfort me in His place. I found a truth so deep in my soul that even I couldn’t ignore it, rebuff the knowledge. My arrow is safe and I no longer have anxiety bout the next phone call, about who might hurt him or who may be in the way of his drug-clouded choices. I know where my son is, I know who he is with.

His graduating class is one of true honor, some friends who I know are welcoming him and letting him know how much I miss him, they watched me grieve as well. I know he will be also be on the welcoming committee for those who come after.  He is safe.  He is whole.  He is watching his children grow, able to give his full attention to them finally. And I am able to forgive God and ask for forgiveness for my hardened heart. I get it. I finally see that he is indeed in a better place and he is a better man now.

I will surely still shed tears, I will spend some days sobbing over what I have lost. I will look at his son and see all the promise that Arrow once held as well. The anger though, that has surely evaporated, replaced with the breath of hope and unexplainable love that  entered my soul this morning.

Changing Time

The wonder of waking to see that my phone and the clock that has rested on the table on my Chef’s side of the bed are an hour apart, understanding that someone somewhere created a program to automatically adjust time while I slept on my device, leaving me with the chore of adjusting all the other clocks around the house to accuracy as time change Sunday arrives. Mentally considering each one that must be pulled from the wall, manually turned back to give an extra hour today, I can’t help but question why I should stop at just one hour, why not go back days, weeks, months. I was given an extra hour to sleep today but what if I had an extra year, 4 years, to go back and redo all the wrongs and the angry words and the missed calls and and and.  Where would I stop?

Ten and a half months have now passed since my son died, 7,665 hours that continuing to accrue and yet I am given this one extra? I want more, I want to go back years. I want to travel to the days of relationship with my daughter, I want to return to when her laughter filled my soul. I want to go back to the days before Arrow’s addiction charted a course we couldn’t alter, back to when he was silly and safe.  How many times must I twist the dial to get back to when life felt sweeter and full of possibility? Each day now brings me closer to the anniversary, December 29, which means all the first times so far have been preparation for this big event, the milestone that shows I have survived without him against what I have often desired. I made it through his birthday, his son’s, mine, Chef’s. Through holidays and spring flowers and starry nights and full moons, through little days and every damn Friday since I got that call that will always mark the before and after of my life. I could go back to before that, but really to set things right, I would have to go much further.

We must be careful with adjusting time, taking only that one hour. If I go back 9 years, I could mess up the sequence and never know my Plum, never hold that tiny baby and sing him to sleep, never teach him to drink from a cup and drop the bottle, never potty train this little boy or help him learn to sleep in the knowledge that he was safe and secure.  I wouldn’t hear his giggles and find Lego everywhere in my home. No, I must only take the 1 hour given, there is still too much to lose by going back which means I must have a reason to go forward. Just as I taught him to tie his shoes and step into the world with confidence, I take the next step and the next, stumbling and tripping and resting often, but moving ever forward.

Looking back is risky. My breathing slows, my thoughts create an impenetrable fog, I miss the sunlight on the leaves. Trusting that timing is above my station, that I cannot return to former days and cannot rush forward to a place where it doesn’t  hurt, I am left with today. One extra hour to wallow, to wonder, to wish, yet still the same 24. A fresh start, a chance to not make the same mistakes and seek forgiveness for those already committed. An opportunity to live into trust, that someone is programming the time to be exactly what I need. I’ll take that extra hour to be gentle with myself, I’ll offer kind words to someone who needs them, I’ll go to bed a bit early tonight and pray to visit with my children at least in my dreams.

How will you spend your extra hour today? May it bring you a sliver of peace and an offering of grace, a chance to tell someone you are sorry and you love them and you delight in their presence in your life. As we move the clocks back, we still must go forward awash in the grace of the Ultimate Timekeeper who understands every minute counts.

 

Gratitude Again

Where friends and family are pondering entering into what for many is the busiest season of the year, holidays hitting with rapid succession, my season has just ended. Preparing meals for our church gatherings each Wednesday and Thursday, two funeral meals, two huge church celebrations, and finally last night a catering for a rehearsal dinner. 7 weeks of intense cooking and planning and shopping all behind me, the quiet again ahead. The constant motion has provided little time to sit and think, to stew and reflect on all of my worries and heartaches, a respite from my emotional pain even as my body ached and rebelled and wished for sleep. As I consider my one neglected home and my critical need for a haircut, I can only see the blessings of this season and know that the sheer ability to say that is progress.

My sanctuary is the church kitchen, the place where I can just be, where friends wander in for a quick chat and a nibble, where people appreciate the gifts I have to offer and there is no pressure to smile.  Yet the smiles and laughs come easily there, the room where children come in and ask if “Miss Lisa needs any help” and proceed to carry out whatever crazy task I give them. Where sweet potato mishaps and a counter covered in leeks are merely part of the story.  This is the place in our church where people 20 years older than me come in to help wash dishes and set out salt and pepper shakers, where people trust me to guide them. I have been amazed at the grace that flows so freely, at the undeniable goodness of people I encounter. Each interaction, every single one, has been healing for me, as if each person took hold of my hand and chose to walk a bit of the journey with me, bringing me back into a restored relationship with the One who sent them into to the kitchen.  They may have thought they were painting a ham with marinade or finding serving utensils, but truly they were showing me a God I could love again, evaporating my anger with every bite of a steak sandwich or the hauling of tables around the room.  Grace, they all offered me grace that I lapped up as eagerly as they consumed the shrimp at the low country boil.

The disruption of two funeral meals in the midst of this chaotic season could have destroyed the momentum I was feeling, the deep sadness threatening to send me back to the couch. An elderly gentlemen who joined his wife in heaven, a man who exemplified a servants heart, that was tough. Then a young man, was too soon, just inconceivable that this could be happening again, although in much different circumstances than my Arrow. I felt honored to be in service, behind the scenes as families gathered to mourn these saints. I felt the wash of my grief even as I recognized that neither event was about me, not about my tears. I remember little of the memorial service we held for Arrow, I attended moments of each of these and allowed the words and songs to minister to me as well, selfishly trusting that the faith on display that we would see these men again to cover my son as well. Unbelievably , friends held me as I sobbed, surrounded me in my own pain and not a single one shamed me for not being able to focus on this very loss and not my own. How could I deserve this grace and love? The generosity of kindness reminded me that I will never deserve any of it, yet it is freely given.

Monday of this week I was given the opportunity to speak to a local fraternity about addiction and consequences. I looked out at these young men and saw promise, saw hope. Even as I shared our struggles with Arrow’s demons, I told them I don’t expect my story to change theirs, that no amount of talking and begging and pleading could save my son, surely they would ignore a stranger in front of them pouring out her heart. What I did remind them is that someone loves them as dearly as I loved my son, that they have value and worth in their very existence and someone would be devastated and broken if they make the wrong choice. I shared the truth that no one wants to grow up to be a heroin addict, that there are hundreds of choices that priced that end result and those steps matter. Looking out for their friends and loved ones, making hard choices to share secrets and act on concerns, that is where I pray they will go. These young men listened and asked beautiful questions and spoke one-on-one with me after. They offered me the opportunity to share my love for my son, something I regret not being able to do at his memorial. They offered me healing with their attentiveness and respect. Another step closer to restoration of my faith.

Finally last night, I was given the opportunity to cater a rehearsal dinner, the first time both sides of the wedding families met. It was glorious to be hovering around such sweet gentle people who laughed and shared stories and accepted the challenge to expand their own sense of family. What a blessing to be on the periphery of this joining, to hear the chatter and watch the groups morph into family, as if I were watching a birthing. New life happened in front of me, around me even as my heart was heavy over the loss of such a young life celebrated mere hours before. Circles, I saw the continuity of life and loving and again, felt my soul accepting the grace and healing so generously given.

Aching feet, groaning back muscles, the aroma of pesto and cartelized onions. I brought all into my home late last night to be greeted by a little boy voice. “Gran, will you snuggle with me?’ My Plum was supposed to be asleep already, I anticipated a glass of wine and my feet on the stool but instead got to hear some giggles and reminiscence from his day, the absolute best way to grow closer to the God who made all this impossible. This morning the dishes are done, the calendar is cleared and a weekend away with my Chef and Plum await. I know I will be traveling with a lighter heart and with too many people to thank for assisting along this journey. Grateful.  I am grateful and I haven’t felt that way since December 29th. I am being restored, a process that causes aching muscles and exhaustion. but my God, the view from the other side is amazing. Thank you to each of you who have held my hand, you are my hero and my deepest friends and I can say with honesty that I am thanking the God I have avoided for months now, for all of you.

No Light, No Grace

When I began this blog and considered the title, it seemed fitting to establish my roots in faith. I sought examples of God’s light and wanted to document experiences of grace as I journeyed through each day. But what now, when darkness seems to close in unexpectedly, when grief overcomes my ability to see or trust the Light? Certainly I have been shown grace as my emotions rule, as tears flow in the midst of everyday conversations or when I appear hardened and aloof, trying desperately not to feel in order to complete tasks. Truthfully though, I have discovered during this mourning time that I don’t find the light to be bright enough,  the grace I once knew was from God is little comfort. Marooned, angry, unable even to recognize a thirst for healing waters, I realize I have lost my ability to write as well.

What was comfort, a means to express what I often couldn’t say out loud, now feels like whining and moaning and pointless. Shall I say each day that I am sad? Shall I list all the ways I have displayed my anger? Who really wants to read such depressing drivel? How can I find my way back as a light-seeker when I am distrustful of the rays that break through, knowing the night is coming again, the inky blackness that mutes colors and turns all who move around me into shadows? Eleven years I was faithful in praying to a God, asking fervently for the prayers of others who seemed more deeply faithful, that my son would be given a way out of his addiction, that he would be safe and redeemed and restored. A pastor told me once, through the darker times, that my Arrow was working on his testimony, that one day he would share his witness. Taking this as a promise from one who had the inside track to God, I just knew Arrow would stand in church one day and thank everyone for coming alongside him in prayer, for propping up his family and caring for his child He would say he was now a believer and committed to a different life. I held this as a promise even when he was homeless and filthy, even when he was missing and the police were searching for him. I trusted this plan when he was in danger in prison and when he attempted suicide. I trusted God with my child, yet God took him anyway.

Tricked, I feel tricked. I search for a way back to God, a reason to go back to God. I still beg him to protect my daughter, to keep my husband safe, to watch over my grandchildren but I know He may not be listening to me. After all, why hasn’t He restored my daughter to us? Why is life often complicated and difficult with Plum’s mom? When is it going to go our way, when? Yes, we have a safe home and food in our fridge, we are mostly able to pay all the bills and our health allows us to participate in our church ministries. Still my deepest yearnings, my fervent prayers lay at the altar, abandoned neglected shriveled. I want the easy joys of restoration and relationship and celebrations, when do I get my share, my payback for the mistake of taking my son? Kubler Ross might notice I am angry and bargaining and oh so far from acceptance.

I listen as others who are mourning or have grown in their grief talk about the assurance of a better place for their lost loves, knowing I am rejecting their faith, rejecting the idea that the timing was God’s intention. How can I believe that Arrow was supposed to die alone in his kitchen with drugs coursing through his body, destroying the chance of listening to his children laugh and walk and run and play football? What sense does that make? How can I not feel rejected by the One I have followed, to give me this child only to rip him from our lives?  No, writing does make me feel better, see truths I may have missed. I can only rant and scream out with the ragged voice of one who has suffered a wound so catastrophic that wholeness will never be possible.

I am sad. Everyday I am sad. Every minute I ache and I search for answers that won’t come. Acceptance of this loss and of a new relationship with the One who pulls the strings seem far off, out of reach to a mother who just wants to hear her son laugh again.

Sweet Discoveries

I noticed the special bags of candy already appearing in the grocery store as I ambled along, I resisted at the first pass but gave in to another display. Bags of bite-sized chocolates, sweets that curb cravings without the guilt of full bars. Hiding this treasure in my office where mostly no one goes, I thought they were safe, that I could dole them out slowly and gingerly to the child, to my hubby. Instead, my Plum chose that weekend to explore my get-away, he loves the rolling chair and the bowls and baskets of gran’s specials. He found the candy, a pile of wrappers on my desk shouted tiny portions be damned. Aside from the issue of him not cleaning up after himself, I know now that the candy was leading me to a sweeter discovery, equally unhealthy if I over-indulge.

An old flash drive filled with pictures and videos, a remnant of an older laptop wiped of important content, lay forgotten in a clay pot my mother made many years ago. When Arrow died and I sought pictures to no avail, knowing I had them somewhere but my scattered thoughts and shocked soul couldn’t formulate where to look.  Swooshing silvery packages into the trash, my eye finally noticed the equally tiny drive that held the memories I sought for 8 months. Once it was attached to my Mac, thousands of images greeted me, luring me into high school, to days before Plum was born, to Stella and her cats and her new car and Sunday dinners with her friends each week of her early college career. Scanning, clicking, devouring the photos like my Plum surely indulged in the 3 Musketeers and Twix bars, I couldn’t stop. Then I found the videos.

Stella holding Plum, gently moving on the porch swing while Arrow blows bubbles, the delighted giggles of my Plum as he watches his father’s face and the resulting laughter of both my children. It is all there. Off-screen, separate from the joy of the moment but recording it unaware that the day would come when hearing that voice, watching that face would mesmerize me. Stella and Arrow, united in bringing joy to the child they both loved first, fiercely. Here in the sanctuary of my porch while they focused on the baby, I recorded my son engaging with his. I can’t stop watching.

I am seeking a new hiding place for the candy jar, somewhere out of reach of my Plum. I wonder if I need to do the same with this flash drive, I have that sick feeling in my stomach that comes from too much sugar. I watch, I get lost in memories, I reject the knowledge that my Arrow, so big and funny and full of life, will never appear in another video, that he will never elicit giggles from his children again. All motivation, the forward movement, the busyness that has kept me rising each day has disappeared, replaced by the sugar low of watching the scene unfold over and over and over. Layers of my denial litter the table where my laptop rests, a trail of tears as messy as the evidence of Plum’s binge.

Was I supposed to find this treasure trove of memories right now? Can I believe that the Holy Spirit led me to by bags of candy and stash them exactly right there? How much of a reach is it to think God believes I am strong enough right now to revisit those days and not get lost? Seeking affirmation that I can do these hard things, magical thinking that assigns power outside of me, I know that if I don’t hide that jar, Plum too will sneak more and I will stay in that day 7 years ago when joy abounded.

Tomorrow I will move the candy and hide the flash drive, maybe. Knowing they both exists though, Plum will search and I will sneak. That moment when the chocolate coats his tongue, bliss. That moment when I see my smiling son, ecstasy.  Pretending we won’t feel sick afterwards, ignoring the warnings that scream for moderation, he slides into my office, I click the play arrow again. Tomorrow, tomorrow we will regain self-control.

 

The Long Saturday

Many years ago, our family watched a movie together that struck the children deeply, The Passion of Christ. None of us have been able to attend a second showing, the images of Jesus nailed to the cross, suffering and mourning so clear, we got the message and haven’t been able to shake it, even during difficult times. I remember Arrow being especially moved and vocal, he was angry at how Jesus was treated, he couldn’t grasp the cruelty. During later years as he moved away from believing, when he resisted going to church and he began to play with other religions during his incarceration, I trusted that the child who once read every book in the Left Behind for Kids series and who ached over this movie still had the seeds of faith within him. No one was witness to his last moments, we cannot say for sure that he called out to God or begged for forgiveness or even rejected it all as he took his last breath. I can only continue to believe that the Holy Spirit was with my son, given to us by God’s Son during his last breaths.

I attended the Good Friday service this week at our church, or part of it. I made it through the beginning songs but when members stood on the altar and portrayed those who witnessed Jesus’s death with an authenticity I could feel and get lost in, I found I couldn’t witness this murder. One young man gave insight into the soldiers who carried out the job of crucifixion, a horrible job that becomes doable when only with detachment, the separation of one’s heart and one’s body. I have been that guy, witnessing horror, participating in the destruction of others by mocking and questioning and above all, not stepping in to say no. Plum asked me the other day if there was ever any kids I didn’t like when I went to school. As I struggled to answer his question, memories of one particular little girl came to mind. She was different, annoying, she was too skinny and wore odd clothes. She had no friends so the day she decided to sit with me at lunch, to join my group, what to me was an implication that I accepted her and maybe could be like her, my fragile identity and need for acceptance from the larger group resulted in a shameful bullying incident that has haunted me for 45 years. When she refused to move even after we told her to, I dumped my tray of spaghetti on her. I cringe as I write this, unable to fathom the cruelty I lived out. When I was disciplined, it was not with suspension or spanking, instead a favorite teacher took me into his room and said the worst thing possible, that he was disappointed in me. That moment solidified for me that I had a choice about how I was going to grow into my character. I could follow the group, I could seek acceptance by behaving horrifically, or I could see the humanity in all around me and choose kindness. I evaluated the popular group I so wanted to be in with and found that I really didn’t have anything in common with them, I really was more like the girl on the fringe. I cannot say that she and I became great friends but I never again rejected her, I did eat lunch with her and I found she had gifts I had previously overlook and discounted. As that respected teacher spoke to me, I lost the ability to detach my heart and crucify others. I didn’t share the whole story with Plum who is kind to the odd kids and would be shocked that his grandma once behaved so poorly. One day though, he will hear this truth and will know that kindness is always our best choice.

Our pastor gave a moving portrayal of the man who hung on the cross next to Jesus, his gasping breaths and last minute acceptance of the offer of salvation, so real and true and horrific, I wanted to bolt from the room. I have been that guy, living a life of deception, suffering the consequences of mistakes that have taken away any dignity or hope, only to turn my soul over to the only One who continued to hang with me, the One who has offered me forgiveness again and again. When I was first imprisoned, when I sat in the jail cell in shock trying to absorb my reality of two and a half years away from my children, I too was gasping for air, only to find it stale, piped in, rife with desolation as others struggled to breathe as well. I begged God to let me die, I sought some means to end it all, the agony of it all wracked my body. Yet in the darkest moments, when I couldn’t escape my horror, I was flooded with the presence of the Holy Spirit, the reminder of the Footprints poem would not leave me, I found a peace I didn’t want, didn’t believe I deserved, as I knew Jesus would carry me when I couldn’t walk. I survived, I healed, I returned a stronger, surer woman who was determined never to be used by a man again, who would seek out God for my redemption always. Unlike the man on the cross, my conversion moment has been stretched over decades, a constant need to turn my eyes away from the harsh realities of this world and focus on God.

Next came the sounds of Jesus’s mother, wailing as she watched her son die. During the last three months as I have sought out God to make sense of my son’s death, I forgot about another mother who lost her son. Alternating between finding comfort knowing God fully knew my pain and being angry that He didn’t stop the loss, I never imagined how Mary must have felt. Yet her son offered comfort even to her in that moment, He instructed another to be her child. He assigned her another son, he solidified that even if she was childless through His death, she would continue to be a mom. He knew they would need each other as they grieved, as mourning threatened to destroy all hope. My wounds are too raw, too fresh, my other child is not joining with me to mourn. Mary’s sorrow was too real to me, I had to leave. As she proclaimed that she didn’t want Him to be Jesus, savior of the world, but just her son, I knew in that moment her mother’s heart just wanted her son back, not this man who made His own choices and suffered the consequences. She couldn’t rescue the baby she had carried, bereft, she cried out at the injustice, at the death of her joy. I have truly been Mary, my son  imperfect but loved by so many,  he too left way too young, he had much left to do on this earth.

Listening from outside the sanctuary, I heard bits and pieces of the witness of others. I considered that Jesus was someone different to each, multiple levels of mourning and relationship were evident during His execution. Friends and followers watched, confused and searching for answers. Left wondering how it all could go so wrong so swiftly, dreams of a better future shattered, swept away as the crowd celebrated. Considering how my son died as suddenly, warning signs clear just as Jesus foresaw His own death, yet ignored, discounted. Still those around my son mourn in shock. His friends, his family, co workers, teachers, all  replaying what happened, searching for answers, desperate to find a different truth than the reality that this was inevitable, that the choices Arrow made led him to his own destruction. Our sins led to the death of Jesus, we are complicit, our very nature made it necessary for the sacrificial lamb to die. Is the same true for my son? What did we miss, what wrongs were committed that encouraged his substance abuse? What more could we have done over the 11 years of his addiction to help him chose life over this disease? Yes, the witnesses to his death are left wondering, wishing for an answer to explain this loss, knowing none will ever bring him back. Hopes for a better future died that morning as they both took their last breaths. The long waiting through Saturday, after that horrific Friday, filled with confusion and seeking ends with the joyous discovery of the empty tomb on Sunday, for the followers of Jesus. My Saturday blanketed Sunday and Monday and all the days after. I’m struggling to get to Sunday, the day of restoration and affirmation.

My son’s birthday falls close to Easter each year. I know there is a story in that, preparation during 26 years to remember the promises of God at the end of the story, to not get stuck in the desolate Saturday of a hard life. As I look back on each year with him, as we baked cakes and blew out candles and sent cards to prison and rejoiced that he was among us for another chance of a bright future, I was being trained, conditioned. Don’t look merely at the emptiness of my heart, rejoice in the transformation of a life. Watch as my sins as a bully in elementary school and his drug use are opportunities to turn toward the light, see grace scatter shame like bits of colored egg shells swept into the trash. The good stuff is inside of us, the flashy colors and decorations an enticement to us to go deeper, find the prize within, to gain nourishment for our souls. Still I am stuck on Saturday, a seemingly endless wait to discover joy again and accept all the grace that Easter brings. I replay the voices from the sanctuary, listening to the witness of believers and doubters alike and know that Sunday will come, one day I too will delight in the empty tomb. Spring is late this year, vacillating between sunny 70 degree days and late snow showers and I find comfort in that. I’m easing into this slow spring season, beginning to notice the birds excitedly chirping, allowing the rain to fall onto my head and sprouting shoots of early flowers to remind that Sunday is around the corner. Embracing the humanity of those who witnessed the execution of my Savior, of those who missed signs to save my son, I realize there is hope enough for me.