Resurrecting beauty on Easter

Today is Easter.

Churches will play "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?"

Maybe a church will have a soundtrack of the sickening noise of the nails being hammered into Christ's hands.

No one will have a dry eye. They will feel the humbling feeling that someone would love them so much that they died for them. Their lack of worth will make them crumble with gratitude.

I'm not there.

I should be, I guess. I believe.

After the shock of the crucifixion, the pastor will launch into the days where Jesus went down below to minister to the dead. It's a sketchy part in the Bible, yet the most fascinating part of the entire story to me.

Then, the congregation will launch into the beautiful refrains of "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today" and "He Arose!"

I should be there. I can't go. I'm grateful, but I can't go. I won't set foot in a church. I won't be among those people who are so heavenly minded they have no earthly good.

Crystal, you've touched me again. This is so profound:

"It never occurred to me that I can examine the past and accept that my childhood was not normal without being vindictive or resentful toward my Mom and Dad. They screwed up a lot; so do I. It doesn't make me love them any less fiercely than I do and it doesn't make me think for one second that they were bad parents."

That's so much what I needed to hear! It's the absolute truth. I know I complain about them here, but I do love them so much and still want to be with them, but I know they don't understand. They think they're "forgiven," i.e., perfect, and that's okay. They think I'm not. I understand why they do, and it's okay. They just put me on the prayer chain, and that is so funny to me, but it's okay. It's how they think I need dealt with, and that's okay. That's how they show me they love me and are concerned for my well being. I blogged recently how they came to my aid for just my laundry. They're GOOD people, but they're also involved with and tend to gravitate toward these people:

Love thy neighbor as thyself, the church chants. As long as they're Christians. They can't risk the stain of being around nonbelievers.

I've gone into the past here before where my father accused me of being possessed because I had terrible headaches that "possessed" me throughout the week, but he only saw the ones that kept me from attending church on Sundays. I can still see the road we traveled, the gravel turning, and the car we drove. It hurt. It really, really hurt...especially when, a year later, we discovered that my thyroid manufactured no hormones whatsoever. I started medication, and the headaches never came back. But he only remembered the Sundays I didn't complete the family row in their pew at church. He never acknowledged the possession accusation and, in fact, used it a few years later when he felt moved by God to buy us a car (I loved him for it; don't get me wrong), but it was a lemon upon purchase and was a lemon the two times we drove it and it was a lemon on the third time we got it and tried to start it, and it died. Somehow, it was our fault the car didn't work; my possession spread to cars, apparently.

Around the same time as the first possession accusation, I remember a beautiful pants set that I wore to play piano for church. Afterward, the pastor's wife pulled me aside and told me I couldn't wear pants if I were to play in front of the congregation. Okay, no problem. It was the most beautiful outfit I owned, Sunday wear, but if she wanted skirts when I played, I could see her point of view. A few Sundays later, I, in the same outfit, went to church, but my name wasn't on the bulletin to play. The choir's pianist got sick; could I fill in? Sure. I sat down and learned the music for a few minutes, we rehearsed, and I got a good idea when I needed to back off my part so the soloists could have theirs. We had a great time with fellowship and appreciating each other's God-given talents. I forgot about everything. It had been a long time since I remembered what goodness God gave to this world. We totally gelled during the performance. I felt God's presence. He wrapped his arms around the congregation in a big thank you for our devotion to him. But the pastor's wife pulled me aside. "I told you not to wear pants if you were going to play!"

By that time, after the possession accusations, after the years of being subject to the dogmatic Christian life, that was the last time I went to that church. I felt blessed, as had so many others, yet she hadn't felt it, the wife of the pastor of the congregation. It wasn't me trying to impress the congregation that morning; it was a mesh of God-given talent to perform something beautiful.

Ruined.

Since then, I've found fellowship with patients and their families. I've seen more goodness from CNAs who swear endlessly to staff, but in the room with a patient, the patient cradled in their arms, a fragile, bent, pain-ridden person, they croon to them and help ease their pain so that the simple act of getting them dressed for the day isn't the worst part of it.

I've seen a great-grandmother give up her entire life to make sure her grandkids can *make* it. She drinks a lot, cusses more, and smokes weed. She also kicked a crack habit a few years back by herself. "We are the righteousness of God through Christ Jesus," in lieu of goodbye to her friends and family is her favorite credo.

I see the goodness of life outside church, and it's beautiful and nonjudgmental. It's the lady who blocked a toddler's path in the grocery store as her pregnant mother huffed behind her. It's the stock boy who didn't need asked to pull a heavy box down for a grandmother, waiting until she saw what she wanted to offer his help. It's the guy behind the kid in line who is 15 cents short to buy a candy bar, and the gentleman just whips out a $5 and says, "You just keep the change, son." Two beautiful people smiled and grabbed a few bags out of their cart so I could have theirs on a busy, busy Saturday at Wal-Mart.

There is so much beauty to see outside the church, but some Christians miss it. They're too busy seeking each other's company to see how much good is left in the world.

My dad started to see it when he started dying. I'll never forget the day a band at my sisters' talent show played a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers that he'd never heard. They looked grungy and wasted, but my father saw how amazingly they played. He shook their hands and complimented them, his hair just starting to grow back from the last round of chemotherapy. He shook the hands of the kids he'd rather see rot in hell than let me hang around with years before--I was so proud. My grandparents on my mother's side always saw it, and my aunt, too. My mother is starting to see it, as her youngest children enter the secular world and my kids who are in the secular world. They're beautiful. There's nothing wrong with them. My son, the eldest, is a kid magnet. When he goes to church, although he doesn't do it often, there's a group of kids and he's in the middle, directing play. At family functions, nobody asks him to, but the adults find themselves being able to visit without distraction, because my son--MY SON (hear with deep emotion and extreme pride)--has decided to organize 10 to 15 kids of varying ages and keep them all interested, be it outside with a football or inside with a PlayStation and decks of cards. My daughter--you just don't meet her, you experience her. Meeting my temperamental Sunshine on a good day (LOL) is like walking into an aura of someone who gets it. She might not know you, but she can, and you want her to. At 11, my baby is the best hugger known to man. He senses a bad day. He's the hardest to get to do chores, yet if I'm really, really struggling to get through the day, suddenly I have a steady supply of whatever I need, because he's in here every so often to see if I need something, from a soda to cookies, and he knows what I need without asking, because he'll wrap his arms around my shoulders from behind and rest his chin on the crown of my head.

I don't think possession got me my children. Again, I complain about them here, but listening to them giggle and laugh in the front room together is what God must feel when angels sing.
Maybe, Lord, I'll be able to blend the two sides of life and beauty I see together. Maybe, someday, I'll go back to the traditional "fellowship" of believers. I believe, Lord. I do.

I need to work on forgiveness. I need them to see what I do. I'd love to walk into church with a bunch of "sinners," from alcoholics to corner workers, and take up the back three pews, just to see Christian goodness. I know you could spot the ones who felt the call to all right away, welcoming them for their chance to see the goodness.

Your resurrection means a lot less to those who can't see the goodness resurrected anywhere else with You. Help me help them see what good is without putting on their church-influenced goggles. Help ME see what is good in THEM, since my goggles were church-influenced, too.