The Morning After

For the first time in many years, there is a forecast of sunny skies and warm temperatures on Easter. That means we won’t need to don heavy coats over cheerful attire, casting the coats aside only long enough to snap photographs in which we pretend not to be cold.

Although I’m thrilled about the weather outlook, I find myself once again pondering the incongruity of Easter happiness and human tragedy. The stories from the Middle East and Ukraine are horrifying. This week was the anniversary of the school shooting here in Nashville, and it’s been one week since a college boy’s body was discovered in downtown Nashville. Easter is the anniversary of a friend’s loved one’s tragic death, and this week, in Baltimore, six Hispanic men lost their lives in the freakish bridge accident.

How do we square chocolate bunnies and painted eggs with raw tragedy? Trumpets with wails?

Maybe we need to look to the cross.

We Christians believe Jesus died on the cross and then arose, slapping death in the face. But whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, or atheist, there is a message in Jesus’ story. It’s the tale of an inner strength in the core of our souls, and that power, which transcends religions and beliefs, resides in all of us, regardless of where we worship or if we worship.

I think the Easter message is one of resilience. Of rising from the ashes in our own lives— whether from public shared tragedies or quiet traumas we carry in our hearts.

How many times have we heard of the unthinkable and wonder how those left behind can go on? And yet they do, surprising us time and again with their resilience, their ability to arise. The pastor whose young daughter was amongst the school shooting victims returned to his pulpit. His wavering voice, his vulnerability, only made his message of hope more powerful. Smiles, though ever changed, return to the faces of the grieving and one day laughter also returns.

One of my favorite songs from the 1970s is Maureen McGovern’s “There’s Got to be a Morning After,” made famous in The Poseidon Adventure. McGovern sings of our need to rise:

There’s got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let’s keep on looking for the light

But how do we look for the light when all we see is darkness? How do we remember to check the tomb for miracles when tragedy is all around us? How does one foot go in front of the other?

Perhaps we should look to nature. No matter how great the despair in the world, tulips and buttercups and the magnificent cherry blossoms arise from winter bleakness. Birds never forget their songs, and the rising sun blinds us with its light.

It has been a while since I blogged. For a week in March, I came home each night from work, walked the dog and then edited a manuscript until the wee hours of the morning. My deadline was March 15, and at four o’clock that day, I hit submit and arose from the dining room table, papers and coffee cups and wine glasses and Post-it notes littering the table. Although certainly not a tragic event, the completion of my manuscript marked a milestone—a hurdle I had overcome.

When you complete a goal, it’s as if your mind and body are floundering, seeking something to fill the void and compel you forward: another challenge to conquer. At least it’s that way for me. I find it hard to linger in the quiet, the beauty of the morning after. I should sit in the sun, my face up to the sky, more often.

Light heals and disinfects.

This morning, as is my tradition, I helped decorate our sanctuary for Easter. Our church recently held a service in commemoration of the anniversary of the Covenant School shooting. Our front stair rails were adorned with enormous bows in red and black, the school’s colors. Because we’re readying for Easter, it’s time for the bows to come down. We haven’t forgotten. The pain is still there, but tomorrow’s sunrise brings Easter hope. As I was removing the bows from the rails, one got away from me. Buoyed on the gentle Spring breeze, it alluded me, teasing me through the parking lot. Each time I got close enough to grasp it, the wind carried it away.

Like a prayer cast into the atmosphere.

Each year, Easter reminds me of family members and friends who are no longer with me. The Hallelujah chorus in church brings tears to my eyes, and perhaps it always will. Maybe the sweetness of holidays lies in the discordant marriage of painful memories and the bounty of the present. Our griefs—whether personal and private or shared by a whole city—remind us, over and over again, that we are resilient. If we focus on the flowering world springing to life around us, if we let the trumpets ring in our ears, if we take deep breaths and embrace the present, then seeds of hope can grow.

We can rise.

As always, I find myself speaking the advice that I myself most need to hear. Happy Easter and prayers for a resilient world in need of peace.