Frail

Today we celebrate Resurrection Sunday, Easter, the most important date on the Christian calendar, what Jesus followers believe is the most important event in human history.

I've read at bit this week in the blogosphere about various observances of this holy day, opinions ranging from "Don't force me to evoke an emotional reaction on Easter... I can worship Jesus every day" to "Chocolate bunnies and new dresses are a mockery of the profound suffering Jesus endured for the sin of the world".  And I can relate to both ways of thinking.

What touches me today about the death, Crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is his frailty.  As we sung a victorious anthem in church today, the slides were superimposed with scenes depicting the Passion.  Those images always provoke a gut reaction, a desire to look away, in me.  The stark suffering, the weakness in the actor's face as he portrays Jesus being heaved skyward.

Frail.  Our God made himself frail.  He came to us in a form we would recognize.

And all the secret shame we carry--addictions, hangups, pain, disappointments, fears, all of our darkness, the things we hide--he bore publicly. The things we cover up with our smiling faces and pretty garments, Christ held up for the world to look on... physically, emotionally, and spiritually naked. Alone.

And today my family still wore our fluffy dresses and bows and took pictures and ate yummy food and enjoyed the privilege of living in a nation of political freedom.  And if that was all  Easter was to me as a Jesus follower, it would be a mockery of the suffering Savior who gave his life as a ransom for many.

I'd like to think that wearing my Easter best and having fun with eggs and candy in a small way honors the newness of life that Jesus purchased for sinful humanity by dying a criminal's death. We can be intentional in teaching our children what's just for fun and what's life and death to us. The pretty symbols are not the main attraction.  Of course not.

My human flesh, and my spirit, is frail.  But now, because I belong to Jesus, I am clothed on the inside, made clean by his blood.  And you can't see that in my Easter pictures (in which I can't get us all looking at the camera to save-my-life), but it's there.

Life, on the inside. Proof that He lives.

Books and Covers and Gymnastics

The two big kids started a beginner's gymnastics class a few weeks ago and they are loving it.  Tonight in the waiting room, I noticed another mom outside the windowed door to the preschool gym.  I quickly inventoried her supple boots, slim jeans, cute bangle bracelet, flawless makeup (me: worn Levis, flats, muffin top but cute haircut and necklace so bonus) and subconsciously filed her under MOM > SUCCESSFUL, PUT TOGETHER and left it at that.  Pretty much not me, very much in the working file of MOM > HOMEMAKER >FRAZZLED, SOMEWHAT FRUMPY BUT TRIES OCCASIONALLY.

I moved to the bench next to her a few minutes before class ended to peek on my kids as they did a circuit.  I noticed J only wanted to do the "high" beam station, and kept shortcutting to return to this line.  I had to laugh and said something like, "That's your brother," to Rachel.

The pretty mom I was sitting by noticed Rachel, asked her age and remarked on her cuteness as you do with toddlers. Hearing my remark, she asked if that was my son.  "Yes, the one in dark grey... He's autistic... sometimes he has trouble following the instructions," I answer.

"That's my daughter," she points out.   I noticed her little girl on the low beam in a black leotard and sparkly peach gauzy skirt.  Petite and adorable.

Her mom tells me this little girl is missing half her brain, and thus has speech and learning delays, as well as hearing loss.

This woman is like me on the inside.

In the next few minutes, we share bits of our stories.  Her, how her daughter now has 20 words.  How she loves the little boys in her class.  How she's struggling to keep up in her special needs class, and is moving to another school.

Me, and homeschooling and therapies and learning to toughen up.  Sharing about a new language app that she might be interested in.

Both of us with that thing in our voice.  The love and the unknown and the vulnerability.

"But she's great," she assures me, after initially sharing the diagnosis.  "That's right.  That's right," I respond, recognizing my own tag line.

Our children have hidden disabilities.   Hers wears sparkles.  Mine wears button downs and sweater vests on Sundays.  We are careful to put their best foot forward.

We see their insides, which the world cannot.

And I'm reminded:

Snap judgements are alwaysALWAYSalways wrong.

We are more alike on the inside than we know.