Back to Life, Back to Reality

Lent is over, He is risen and PBS is on at our house. Back to the grind. We've had an extraordinary weekend, my Friday night temper tantrum not withstanding (I blame hormones), we had a blast. I don't feel as though I worked nearly hard enough to earn the celebration we experienced. But that's exactly the point of Easter; an unearnable gift.

I find that religious celebration, holidays, and observances are best experienced if they do not resemble in any way how you may have celebrated these things as a child. I suppose tradition in a sense can become the thing in and of itself, and the meaning behind the tradition is so easily lost.

Or maybe I love anything new; new, new, new, I love new with a steady foundation of identity and relationships to support it. Experiencing Easter with over 2,000 people in downtown Houston was certainly new, smacked not of tradition, but re-defined Easter for not only me, but I suspect for many.

I couldn't believe how much food people brought and shared. I got so many pats on the back and met so many new people. The volume of the music and the collective hum of the crowd; hands shooting into the air in worship, mothers dancing with babies on hip, dashiki clad Africa American pastors belting out "I'll Fly Away." These are just a few of my favorite things, a snapshot of a transcendent day with a ragtag bunch of God's children. What could be better?

It was all over too soon. I wish I'd taken pictures. I wish I hadn't gotten choked up singing "No Earthly King" (actually, no I wouldn't trade that for anything.) I wish I'd eaten more pie. I wish I'd stayed longer. Oh, well, there's always next year.

Why failing my fast is the best thing that's happened this Lent

I realized that during the last few weeks coffee had become much more important to me than it actually is. It's funny how that works. I was right about Early Grey, when I wrote that I didn't think he could get me through this month I knew what was on deck was likely the hardest thing I'd ever do. I wish I also knew that the Grace of God would carry me through that hardest thing, but at the outset my faith was pretty small. I simply talked myself up by gritting my teeth and scrubbing in for a long haul.


Here's what I did (and be sure I tell you this not to exalt myself, but to document it): I went to Cleveland, I busted (checked) my 82 year old father out of the hospital, I took him (in a wheelchair and on oxygen) to a nearby hotel, where for two days I tried to help him get better. Even frail (he's lost 30 pounds since the start of February) he is still a huge presence, and all my life he's intimidated me. I spent two days at his bedside in February after the first surgery, two days he doesn't remember because as the nurses proudly explained he was on the "Michael Jackson drug", an anasthesia type medication that makes you forget the horrors of surgery. So with that he forgot that I was ever there. I wish I could. He was not pleasant hooked up to all those machines, thrashing around and giving everyone a hard time. After I left he called the police on one of his nurses. The good news is the staff wasn't too flummoxed by this, apparently it's not uncommon for the elderly to react like that to being hospitalized. I told them, the thing is, he's always like that. "ICU psychosis" is pretty much his everyday personality. Except when he's being funny, charming and sweet, which he can turn on like a switch. It seems to be the one thing that's kept him alive to be honest.

This go round I saw none of the angry mean "ICU Psychosis" father, thank God. He was good. He was patient, amicable, and on only a few occasions said something that pissed me off, but generally we got along well. And I dare say, we even had a good time. Now I know how to operate three kinds of oxygen tanks without blowing myself up. I count that as a positive outcome.

I guess whether or not I drank coffee through all this is irrelevant, right? Well I did. Drink coffee that is. I didn't really even think twice about it.

As I was mulling all this over on the plane home I was thinking about the quote I've been focused on "If you don't die with Christ, how can you be raised with him." I know that what I did this week was dying with Christ, it was dying to myself. What I did was I walked straight into the Lion's mouth, straight into the fiery furnace. I walked around in there for two days, and emerged without even the smell of smoke on me. Not a hair was singed.

From his perch at the far end of his hotel room bed my father asked why I had come. Why was I so loyal? Why, essentially did I love him. I told him it wasn't out of loyalty, and it wasn't even out of love, not the kind of love he was talking about. I told him that a few years ago I was praying and I was asking God what to do about my father.

Why? he asked.

Because you hurt me- I answered. In too many ways to explain or recount here.

So I asked God and this is what He said, I'll never forget it:

Love him like I love you.

That's what I told my father. I told him, that's what I'm trying to do, that's all.

It was good, it was a moment. He said Whoa.

Hey, if you pray, pray that that seed will grow in him in this, the very last chapter of his life. That despite what he's done, or left undone, he would choose to be set free, the way I've been set free. I told him what I believe: That we've basically got two choices in this life. When we die, we can stand before God and be called to account for everything we've done wrong, every sin. Or we can stand before God blameless, because we choose to accept Christ's sacrifice on our behalf. Because we choose to listen to that small voice, that tiny whisper, drawing us to His side.

With that said, coffee up. I've done my dying this go-round. Amen.