An Easter Devotional for 2020

I am contributing to some devotionals at my church and thought I would share my devotional for Holy Saturday. Happy Easter! 

Scripture: Matthew 27:57-66, Psalm 22

Years ago, my walk with Christ plummeted into a bleak valley. One where I scrambled around begging for normalcy of my happy Christian stroll again. But, it was in that dark season (or era…it seems much longer than a season) when I discovered a deeper reverence of my Lord. The valley offered a dependency on holy rhythms, not because they made me happy again, but because they gave me purpose as I crawled along the valley floor. The rhythm of prayer, worship, writing a novel’s messy first draft—these motions shaped my grief and carried me along an undulating valley walk, just as we see the psalmist write about in Psalm 22. With my focus on a Savior I could not see in the darkness, my rhythms carried me through the implosion of anguish, the soberness of reaffirmation, the cry of supplication, and finally the praise and future hope in our God.

At first glance, I see Joseph of Arimathea in Matthew 27:57-66 as this great noble man—steady  in his deed for Jesus. He was greater than I could ever be. Joseph seemed to go through the motions of an honorable burial without any emotion. However, I wonder if Joseph of Arimathea was depending on holy rhythms too? After all, he was another disciple of Christ. He knew Christ face to face. How could he not be moved by his horrific death? In the darkness of Friday’s outcome, Joseph found purpose to continue on in honor of his Savior—even in the grim rhythm of burial. It was all he could do. It was a valley rhythm that kept him close to Christ, even when the light had been snuffed out. Did Joseph’s heart also cried out the anguish, soberness, praise, and future hope of Psalm 22 as he buried Jesus? How could it not?

In a way, this pandemic has drawn me into another valley. I am sure all of us can relate. There is a darkness in not knowing what is next. The first days of quarantine were overwhelming for me—just like my season long ago, just like the grief of the psalmist. But, even though we don’t know the end of this pandemic valley walk, we know the end of the psalm. There is a future hope of God in all His glory—He is with us in the darkness, He has given us holy rhythms, and the Light will indeed shine again.

From the Atheist in My Life

My husband has built a personal aviary outside our living room window.

We sit and watch the birds each morning over a cup of coffee, delighting in the varieties, the habits, and the newcomers we haven’t seen before.

We have a camera set up on a tripod and take pictures upon pictures of woodpeckers, gold finches, dark-eyes juncoes, doves, blue jays...even sparrows. They are a bird too,  no matter how common.

I only post this pic of two doves from my phone because I am too lazy to download all the other pics off the camera.

Honestly, I am too frozen to do much of anything. I woke up today and remembered all the tragedy. There is this giant grackle feeding on all the good thoughts in my mind, leaving nothing for joy or peace.

I sat on the couch and stared at the birds this morning, my unease pouring down my cheeks...and I am not sure if it’s fear, gloom, or just anxiety...but it’s here, just in my peripheral, flapping it’s vulture-wide wings. My husband comes up to me, sits beside me with his coffee, and rubs my back.

And I think what a crappy witness I am to him. What a terrible lack of faith I have right now, when I could stand tall and strong in this spiritually-mismatched marriage amidst this global pandemic. But I can’t pretend. Not with him.

“You know, I read somewhere that even the birds are taken care of. You are too.” He smiled.

“Are you quoting Scripture?” I laughed amidst my tears.

“Hey, I am just saying what’s true. There are things in there that are true.” 

So, my atheist husband ministered to me this morning, digging deep into the Bible-rich foundation that he unanchored himself from years ago.

And I know why he did it. I am not foolish to think that he’s reconsidering anything, I cast that idea off years ago, after the millionth hope crumbled. I know that he spoke it because he loves me, and he wanted to comfort me. 

But he brought up Scripture...for me. I sit in the warmth of that. In the comfort of that.

This pandemic really is turning everything topsy turvy. Isn’t it?

Forgotten Stories or Stories-In-Waiting?

Writer, ever step back into an old story and regret the dust on its pages? I have this story that shaped me for two tough, excruciating years, but grew steadily from two decades of dreaming.

Every once in a while, I will pull it up on my computer and read a bit.

It’s almost torture to do that, really. 
Because the background noise builds, a buzz of “too late now” hisses in my head.
Yet, crumbs of hope have kept me from truly believing that. God’s timing keeps me from believing that.

I read, and it’s like visiting with an old friend, and it’s like recalling how much I miss that friend.
It’s like that one imaginary friend who slips from your memory, but every once in a while an old burst of creativity reminds you of their existence in your heart.

I delve into the story but can’t read for too long because it plucks at a heartsore, a deep regret that my imagination wasn’t strong enough to grow real pages, strong wings.
I pray that old stories have purpose too. I have seen two old stories to publication. Maybe my imaginary friend has a chance yet?

Writer, do you have that one story that flirts with your hopes, challenged your chance to move into a new one?

One day...who knows when.

Blowing dust off the pages to tuck it in the drawer again. On to grown up things, and new imaginary adventures while I hope in the old ones.