I went to church today at St. Andrew’s—the liberal Christian Church I always said I’d take you to. I don’t go often enough, finding one excuse or another to stay home. But I went today, and there was an open seat on my right. I pretended you were sitting next to me. I always pretend you’re sitting next to me. I figured that the pastor would talk about traditional Easter things: about joy and gladness and triumphant ascendance—all the feelings that have been so hard for me to find lately. But she didn’t talk about those things, at least not at first. She talked about grief and about loss. She talked about a life cut short. She talked about how Jesus’ friends went to mourn at the tomb where they had left him earlier in the week. Then she talked about how folks at the Jewish Community Center down the road had spent all week gathering at the place that last held the stolen pieces of their loved ones. And all I could do was think of that corner on my couch where we always sat together and how I catch myself glancing over my shoulder at night hoping to receive just one glimpse of your face. Jesus was not there. The three people killed at the Jewish Community Center were not there. No matter how badly I wish for it, you are never, ever there. It was almost too much for me to handle. Today’s Gospel ends with Mary Magdalene crying in the tomb. She wants so badly to have her friend back, to hold his body one last time, to hear his wisdom, to kiss his face. And then Jesus appears behind her and asks why she is crying. At first, she doesn’t recognize him. He looks different from how she last remembered him on the cross: he was suddenly more radiant, more whole, and completely alive. But Jesus calls her name and she understands. She sees. She believes. Life where once was death. On Friday, the Westboro Baptist Church picketed the funerals of the three people killed at the Jewish Community Center. Their signs and their timing were as upsetting as ever. But across the street, guarding the place that held the bodies of those who were lost, a larger, more beautiful picket existed, their signs reading: “Love Wins.” And everyone believed it. Love where once was hate. And every day of my life, I add a new song to the list that I call “Ours,” I feel your presence in the oddest of places and at the most ridiculous of moments, and I share my pieces of you with everyone I know. Strangely enough, through tragedy and suffocating sadness, there is beauty, poetry, and enduring hope. There is the surety of better days. There is the truth that you are always, always here. It sometimes just takes me a moment to understand it and to believe it. Light where once was darkness. Today marks a month since you’ve been gone, and you’ve been on my mind the entire time. But today you reminded me that even in the deepest of heartbreaks, there remains the possibility for something else, some promise that we will all make it through. And at the finish line is you: alive in and around each of us, loved forever, lighting our path all along the way. Thanks for coming to church with me today. I love you. I love you. I love you. I can’t wait for the next time I’m reminded of you.
Posted on: Sun, 20 Apr 2014 18:44:11 +0000
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