I write it all down there in ink. What I need to finish this week – and I schedule in the following weeks too while I have the calendar and the lists. The softball, the dances, meetings, and more. And I breathe in deep, because I can feel that tightness around my neck, and I think I know what it is now.
It’s the joy leaving. It’s the looking ahead and thinking how can one person do it all. And knowing I don’t do it all very well, and thinking on the people who do more, do it better.
But I’ve promised myself to exhale out and to breathe life beautiful into this home of ours. So I smile, and I remind myself, you’re not doing it alone. You don’t have to do perfect. You don’t even have to do good enough. You. Are. Not. Doing. It. Alone.
And the name, it rests there on my tongue. In my heart.
I look at today’s square in that calendar. Thursday. The Thursday before Easter.
And I allow myself some minutes to think. To think about what that Thursday looked like. How Jesus, knowing He was going to die? Well, He prepared a Passover meal with His friends. And I think how every precious step of this Jewish tradition screamed His name. Told the story of how He came to save. He was the perfect, spotless lamb that needed sacrificed. As I imagine Him breaking bread, drinking the wine, washing the feet, I think today is not just a day on the calendar.
Today is holy.
I look at the to-do list. I imagine myself in front of Him, His name sweet on my lips. And I think, could I tell Him I hadn’t stopped because there were cookies to make and lesson plans to perfect and to-do lists to rewrite because I was too tired to do any of it?
No, I couldn’t, can’t, tell Him that.
So I stop. And I put the cookie dough in the fridge. The chick and the bunny and the Easter egg cookie cutters lay there scattered on the counter. Instead I write these words, and I’ll meditate on what my sweet Savior did on Thursday.
Because tomorrow? Friday? He was crucified. A bloody, cruel death, Roman-style. Darkness fell. But as He asked God to forgive them, forgive us, nailing Him up there on the cross with our sins, as He breathed His last? A little bit of Sunday came on Friday. Because the veil of the temple…that divider of God and man, well, it tore right in two. And that day, that moment, Jesus died? He became a bridge.
Sunday was still fully coming. And that’s what we celebrate. Sunday’s a Holy day – and it’s a happy one too. We say He’s risen. Indeed. And we paint the holiday with pastels and spring and sweet.
But let’s not forget the Thursday, the Friday, before. Holy days. Worthy of our contemplation.
Worthy of our deep thankfulness. A grace that should bring us to our knees.