More life
Holy Saturday has always been a strange day for me. I do what I can to live in the shadow of Good Friday's cross without flipping the page to Easter a day early. I realize how impossible it is to adequately describe how I try to live on this liminal day.

I sat in the sanctuary last night with my five year old sleeping in my arms and my seven year old sandwiched between his mother and me. Nearly all the candles had been extinguished as the story marched closer and closer toward death. I looked down to meet the eyes of my seven year old who whispered, "but he doesn't stay dead, right? He comes back alive...doesn't he..."

It wasn't that he hadn't heard the Easter story. I would guess that he could tell one or some combination of the four accounts about how God raised Jesus Christ from the dead. I don't know for sure, but I think he was struggling with his own ability to live with the pain of the cross without speeding past it on his way to the empty tomb. "...on Easter...he comes back?" Though I knew I couldn't explain it right then, and I'm not even sure I could with more time, I said, "not yet, not yet."

He furrowed his brow, nodded and turned back toward the darkening story tellers.

Life and death. Death and life. We are dying while we live, yet we can choose to live while we die. We can try to explain it. We can deny one and cling to the other. But I find this life is one paradox after another. After these 40 days, have you found a satisfactory way to explain the nature of a paradox in your life? Do you think a paradox will go away if you can just erase one side of it?

Life and it's paradoxical companion, death, may be complicated and even painful at times, but together they do indeed offer far 'more than any illusion.'

As we prepare to step out of this Lenten wilderness, I'm grateful: for my journey, for Parker's words, for the mysterious nature of paradox and especially for your company.

If this has been a meaningful journey for you, I'd love to hear from you. I'm not planning another daily blog any time soon, but I don't think I can stop cold turkey. If you'd like to keep up with the next blog, you can check back here or send me an email and I'll be sure to let you know the address of the next one. Hopefully, that one will be a little more user friendly and easier to leave comments.

May this poem by Jane Kenyon be a gift to you on this Holy Saturday.

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.