It’s Holy Week, and today we’re on the bridge between Good Friday, the day Christians commemorate Christ’s crucifixion, and Easter Sunday, when they celebrate his resurrection.
I love the rhythms of the church calendar. But on a Good Friday nine years ago, we welcomed our daughter into the world, just before noon, putting an end to (or at least granting a respite from) an incredibly hard season. Her new little life crowded out the fear of death we’d been living under.
It felt like a resurrection.
But it didn’t happen on Easter. It happened on Friday.
As a Christian, I remembered Christ’s death yesterday. But I also remembered the overwhelming joy of sweet, glorious new life.
I’m sure I’m not the only one overwhelmed by contradiction on our church’s–and our culture’s–big days. My sweet neighbors got married in 1961. They celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary–a day that they say had always meant nothing but happiness to them–on the day that we now know as 9/11.
Our daughter’s birth, my neighbor’s marriage: they remind me to allow people their joy and their pain, even when they seem out of step with the rest of us. I’m betting it’s more prevalent at Christmas than at Easter, but I’m certain it happens every day of the year.
Happy Easter, friends, wherever–and however–you are.