I'm home this Easter morning. A family member has come down again with the Spring Plague that is going around. I'm home and there are so many other places I wish I was.
I wish I was in church. I wish we had a church. I wish I wasn't in constant pain. I wish I didn't have to take medicines that cloud my faculties. I wish I was not so impatient. I wish I didn't cry at the drop of a hat. I wish I could spend just one day healthy.
I wonder if Christ had wishes, that night in the garden, the night he sweated blood.
How much did he know about what was to come?
Did he know just how much he was going to suffer? Was it the pain of torture that hurt him so or the betrayals and abandonment? Which was worse: the nails or the broken heart?
I don't know, but I do know that when he exclaimed, "It is finished," on the cross that it wasn't. It was far from finished.
The story didn't end on the cross, in the darkness, in the midst of a coming storm. It looked like the end, but things are seldom as they appear.
And as much as we are persuaded that the story ends with sunrise services, with frilly dresses, with fancy brunches, with pastel eggs, with fluffy bunnies, that is not the end either.
The end has already been revealed; it is no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. The end is no more pain.
Today is not the end; it is the remembrance of things past, the celebration of things to come. Today is the reminder of Christ's promise to those who take up the cross and follow him.
Our story doesn't end alone in the dark; it ends with jubilee.
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