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April 4, 1999
Easter Sunday

It's after 11 by the clock on my desk, but my body thinks it's only 10, and will for a few days more, as I adjust to the time shift. Maybe that's why I feel so wide awake, or maybe it's just a desire to "keep and hold the rapture"* of my best Easter ever.

You're not supposed to judge your spiritual experiences -- you are just supposed to have them. But being of a self-critical bent, I judge constantly -- did I look right? was I clever enough? is this piece too long? too short? too obscure? I judge my efforts, and I weigh the results, and often I blame myself, even if the cause of a failure or disappointment was entirely out of my hands.

As I said before, I used to hate Easter, and even in these last 20 years as a pilgrim believer, I have not always undertaken the rigorous spiritual house-cleaning that Lent demands. After all, the period begins in the deepest part of my seasonal depression, and the last two years have been complicated by situational concerns that seemed to hold my soul prisoner. This year, however, I felt a difference. Something began to move, and then something broke open along about the middle of March.

I examined my conscience, let go of some old hurts, and mustered forgiveness of some of my transgressors. I also found a few sins I like too much to give up, and prayed for God's tolerance in this regard. I rejoiced in knowing both who I was and whose I was.

By yesterday I was streaming with joy.  I mixed sugar and yeast, eggs and milk, flour and just the right amount of anise, and as I plunged my hands into the soft dough I knew it was the best bread I had ever made. I walked among the daffodils in my garden, and knew they were the brightest yellow they had ever been.

This morning, as we sang the entrance hymn ("Jesus Christ is Risen Today!" --  #151 in your green LBW) I felt emotion well up in me as it usually does only during a candlelit rendering of "Silent Night." When my 13-year-old leaned over and whispered that she liked the return of the festive Hymn of Praise, I thanked God that this all was beginning to mean something to her.

And then, when I heard my favorite Easter Gospel, John 20, in which Mary Magdalene does not know the risen Lord until he calls her by her name, I heard him say my name too, and knew my joy in the mystery was complete.

Some young men I know of recently saw their final high school basketball season extend more than a month into league and district playoffs and then the state tournament. When they had gone as far as they could, they spent a weekend enjoying their successes and grieving that final loss.

And it came to pass that they turned in their basketball uniforms, and were promptly issued their baseball uniforms. "Get busy," the coach told them. "You've already missed two weeks of practice."

I need to remember that when I open my prayer journal tomorrow.

(*The phrase is from my first piece in The Silken Tent, by way of Sylvia Plath.)