Until he heard the crunch.
The sound stopped his fast feet in their tracks. He dropped his net, bent low to investigate.
When he rose, it wasn't a butterfly that he held in his small cupped hands, rather, shattered pieces of plastic and a wad of damp grass.
"I thought Easter was over,"he said as tipped his hands toward mine and offered me all of that broken-ness.
I poked at the jagged left-overs of Sunday's sugar-sweet fun.
"Easter is never over."
My words sounded as hollow as the old tree stump he was climbing on.
He didn't respond. Didn't even turn his head.This boy- who one day before had plucked all he needed from a tree-was busy now, green eyes scanning the tree line for a tell-tale flutter.
He dove super-man-style off of the log, his feet racing fast.
And I saw myself in him.
And in all those purple pieces in my hand.
Why is it so easy to leave Easter behind?
To chase after all that could fill my net when what I really need is that empty tomb.
And if the empty tomb is the true treasure, then why is it so difficult to stay there?
Why does it seem that no matter how high I raise my hands in praise on Easter Sunday, Monday always rushes in, drowning out that voice that calls my name.
The doing and going and getting and chasing tramples over my Lenten-stilled soul and shrouds my Easter-Sunday vision.
When the Easter eggs are packed away and the baskets are emptied and those forty candles that shined ablaze on Good Friday are returned to the dark of the storage room, it's so easy to start chasing after the stuff of earth.
Until I hear the crunch.
All the hurry kicks up the dust of who I was. The words spewed harsh and grace withheld remind me that without Easter I am dead. Bound by my own grave cloths of selfishness and pride.
My brown-haired boy tramples the grass and swipes at the sky, his sister at his heels.
But I stand still. Dig my feet into the spot where the purple egg cracked.
And I remember. Remember that all this doing and striving and trying just leaves me in pieces.
Remember that the only prize worth grasping is the nail-scarred hand of my risen Lord.
Remember that life isn't a race, a mad rush for the end. Because if I am a daughter of the resurrected Christ, there is no end.
Isn't that the gift of Easter? The change in what once was and what could be.
Death where is your sting? Time where is your noose?
Because of that empty tomb, eternity is mine. I can take slow steps of hope, eyes open to His presence. Ears tuned to His voice.
Everything has changed. Everything CAN change.
If I just remember.
The Overflow: Your life is a journey you must travel with a deep consciousness of God. It cost God plenty to get you out of that dead-end, empty-headed life you grew up in. He paid with Christ's sacred blood, you know. He died like an unblemished, sacrificial lamb. And this was no afterthought. Even though it has only lately—at the end of the ages—become public knowledge, God always knew he was going to do this for you. It's because of this sacrificed Messiah, whom God then raised from the dead and glorified, that you trust God, that you know you have a future in God. -I Peter 1:18-21
Happily linking with lovely Ann
and Tracy at Winsome Wednesdays