I am sitting in a quiet house, wrapped in a blanket, writing. On a Saturday afternoon.
This is a miracle, for numerous reasons.
Jack went to his new respite center this morning, which feels like a major miracle, years in the making. We walked in—Jack’s first time there—and he got right down to vacuuming. He was completely unconcerned about Dutch and me leaving. We high-fived when we got in the car. Jack with a happy place to go of a Saturday? Heaven.
Jack is napping now, which he is wont to do on weekends. No complaints here. My policy is to NEVER argue with naps.
Saturdays have been my bane, basically forever. I have forgotten how to look forward to weekends because they’ve been my weekly death march for so long.
Today is different.
It is sunny and bright and cold. This is the day, per Holy Week, when Jesus was in the tomb, when his family and followers wept and mourned. Tomorrow is Easter, the day we celebrate that he is risen.
But Easter has already happened here.
I’ve wept and mourned these last eleven years. I knew Jesus wasn’t in the tomb, but it felt like I was there. I philosophically understood that God loved me and Jesus lived, but I didn’t intrinsically feel it.
The stories in the Gospels of Jesus healing maimed, possessed, and diseased people used to make me sick with longing. I wanted his healing power for Jack. Yet it seemed that my lot was to just endure.
I’ve always known Jack will be whole after mortality, that our trial will be finished and our happiness unspeakable. My sorrow lay in coping with the still-present daily challenges in the meantime.
Recently I’ve undertaken a spiritual journey. Yes, I just used the word journey unironically. I know.
It’s personal, what I’ve uncovered. I can’t express what happened in words, because they aren’t enough, which is saying something, because I really love words.
This is what I can write from my current vantage point:
I’ve left behind my sorrowful bags. I’m hiking with a tiny day pack of essential burdens. Comparatively, they’re featherweight.
I am less connected with earthly woes. All of this stuff around us is merely a means to an end.
There is power in submission. It’s only taken me my entire adult life to truly understand this.
God speaks to me in dreams, and my recent dreams have been vivid, detailed, and instructive. He gives me gifts that bubble up from my subconscious mind, rising with clarity to my conscious self. And they tell me what I need to know.
I understand what is true about myself, and what is warped perception.
My sorrows are not final.
Jesus is not here, for he is risen.
I am risen, too. Hallelujah.