Anita’s Blog

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since I lost my mum. 7 January 2023 will be seventeen years since she left. It seems like forever, and indeed, it has been. It has been a lifetime without my mother. There have been many good things that have happened to me in these last seventeen years, and there have been some not- so great things that happened too. The one constant has been that in these situations, she has been very clearly missing and I have felt her loss right through all of them.

              It’s interesting to see how many people seem to say they suffer her loss on the same level as I do. It annoys me at some points, and at others, it amuses me. Some of these very people were afraid to come to hospital in case they caught what she had, not that she had anything contagious. Yet, they minimized their time in hospital with her, got annoyed with me when I made sure I would stay and said some very unkind things. I’m glad that I never listened to any of them. I don’t have regrets as a result, and I am so thankful to God. If I’d listened and not stayed by mum, my regret would be unbearable. Some told me off for how her passing left me. They said all sorts. From these, I’ve withdrawn.

I realise that as I’ve grieved mum, many things formed a part of what I grieved. Inappropriate requests made after mum died, things said to me because people couldn’t accept how I’d been brought to my knees, the lack of a space to talk about my mum after she died, etc. were part of a complex, complicated grief. These were insidious, painful, and very oppressive. All these subtle but painful extras added to the struggle I had in going to work and focusing. I was finding it hard to be the lawyer that I needed to be because my memory shut down and I had no energy in me. The whole thing was overwhelming. A counsellor I spoke to about grief helped me look at all these other things as secondary losses, the primary loss being my mum.

It’s interesting to see, when I worked on spelling things out, how much I really lost when mum died.

Seventeen years later, there are many things that remain lost. I never got back my legal career. There is something in me that is so completely changed, that has made this impossible. It’s hard to explain this. There are relationships which may be a little more repaired now, but which still don’t feel safe. I suspect they never will feel safe again. There are large chunks of my memory that are gone. My nuggets of history, football, lyrics and tunes of songs, movies, celebrities, books, etc. are all gone. In 2020, when we had a freak flood, I lost a whole load of things. The loss was sudden and rather broad. As I talk about the flood and recovery, I realise that there are many things I’ll never replace or be able to replace. The experience of the flood and the loss from it made me think about all these things I’ve lost since losing mum. For years, I tried to replace them. It was impossible to listen to every single song from the past or watch every single movie or read every single book – and remember everything as I used to. These are all gone.

My grief for a lot of these things that I lost has mostly diminished now. I’m okay with not being a lawyer. In fact, I am glad for the change in direction, the people I’ve met and things I’ve learnt as a result. Maybe less excited about what it’s meant to the wallet, but I’m not too torn by that these days. I’m reconciled to the fact that some relationships are just no longer the same. All things considered, I feel much better off with lesser or no interactions there. I’m okay not knowing a lot of the things I used to know. I may have picked up some other frivolities in their place. This is progress.

The only thing that remains is the loss of my mum. That hurts the same. That runs deep. That’s not going away. That much, I know.

Now, I am a Christian, as was my mum. If there’s anyone who played a role in my faith, it is her. I believe that she is at peace in Christ. Over these seventeen years, this has been a helpful, consoling thought. It has driven me further into digging in my heels where my faith is concerned. It has helped me feel relief at times when grief hits harder than usual and I find myself in tears. I am grateful to Jesus for this. Yet, it does not stop the pain of her loss. It highlights it. The more I consider how Jesus wept at Lazarus’ grave, the more I am convinced that we are right to weep over the loss of our loved ones, for such loss is so against God’s plan for this world. I am relieved that this loss, whilst it will be something I reckon with for the rest of my life, is still not permanent. There will be a day, when I rise, and it will be the end of this deep, deep pain in my soul. It will be an end to the reminder that is constantly there in my heart, and which feels more pronounced when there are family gatherings, special events, or changes, successes, or challenges in my life. One day.

For now, whilst it might be seventeen years for me without my mum, I want to recognise the loss of her for it is a great loss. Imperfect as she was, she was by God’s sheer grace, the perfect mum for me. I was given a wonderful blessing and I am immensely grateful to God for it. I am very sad that she’s been taken away from me so soon, but I also recognise that God has used her in her absence to teach me how to lean on Him. In that sense, there is a bittersweet feeling within. To my mum, this I say: it still hurts that you’re not here, even though it is now seventeen years that you’re gone. I miss the safety I had with you. I miss the chats, the laughs, and the tears we shared over everything. I miss you checking in on me. I miss your joy in me and in us. I miss the poise you bring to a gathering and the forwardness of thought you had. I miss how you missed your dad – I remember the last conversation you and I had about him twenty-seven years after he died. It was very soon after that you left. I miss your wisdom and maturity. I miss your love. I miss you mum. Seventeen years has gone by, but I miss you.

Christmas is just around the corner. Again. How quickly and effortlessly time passes on by. We’re in the final month of 2022 and it’s on full throttle. This season, the holidays, and festive cheer will all come to an end rather soon from the looks of it. We’re on a roller coaster ride, it feels. Anyone with a crushed or pained spirit will probably find the speed of the roller coaster too much to bear.

As I write this, I think of friends and family who have suffered loss very recently. The loss of a father, mother, spouse, sibling, close family member or friend, can make the roller coaster ride unbearable. I’m also thinking of those who are dealing with different kinds of loss- from relationships ending, which is really like a bereavement too. Some are enduring job or financial losses that are hard to recover from. These are just a few examples. I would include myself yet again in the loss category this year- I’ve lost my precious Loki.

Ask anyone with any kind of grief. Christmas is hard. Unless of course, you do what is popular in this day and age and ‘forget about it’ or ‘don’t think about it.’

I remember when my mum died in 2006. As I write, that’s sixteen years ago. Talk about time zipping past. I wept the days leading up to Christmas. I wept on Christmas Day. I wept and wept. But everything still kept rolling on. I remember wearing a saree that year to keep the conversation away from “how are you?” to an “ooh you look great!” I succeeded there. Truly, the tactic worked. All my weeping was in private. The people who hosted me were kind but no one mentioned my mum, nor did they give me the space to mention her. I forced myself to smile even though my heart was breaking and I think it was then that I formed a massive dislike for the song ‘Smile’ that tells you to smile when your heart is breaking. Yeah, right! Cheese! Everything that I did to participate in Christmas that year, from saying a prayer in church all the way to attending Christmas parties felt like I was only feeding the roller coaster with the energy it needed to keep going. It did not stop.

What’s happened this Christmas? Well before Loki died, I agreed to host certain dos. I’m a planner and I try to get things scheduled as early as I can. This time, I was fully aware that my rheumatoid arthritis is not just something that I can say ‘down boy’ to and go on my merry way. It’s untamed. So I used my planning abilities to write up detailed plans of when I would do what. I must say that I am quite proud of myself- it’s gone to plan. Except that I never planned on Loki dying and a whole new set of emotions on grief coming into play.

I don’t blame God for the timing of it all. I am sad when I watch other pups and doggies on those glorious reels they post on social media. I recognise the sweet things that Loki used to do in many of these. He was undeniably sweet. So full of love. I feel sad for Loki because it feels like his young life was pit against challenges that even a vigilant mama couldn’t fix. I was vigilant. I don’t blame God for this because I believe that the world is broken, and I believe in Christ, there is a permanent fix coming.

What’s different for me this Christmas as I consider my mum, and my most recent loss of Loki? I think it’s that I’ve learnt to step off the roller coaster at points. I don’t mean that I can stop things from happening. I can’t. I’m going through with all the hosting that I agreed to do and am sticking with the plan as it were. But, I’ve made some modifications to the plan. I’m giving myself the space to grieve. This has been so helpful. It is sheer grace that a friend who created the Loki list, which is a prayer list for our fur kids, has been so diligent in asking me how I am. She shares in the grief I face for Loki. She has endured loss too, many times over of loved ones from the human and fur baby categories. They feel like one category to some of us. I am grateful for another friend who isn’t crazy about fur kids. She has been so generous with the time she’s given me to talk about Loki. One more has been praying for me, as I hand over Loki’s stuff to her young dog. She’s going through masses of grief herself, as she copes with significant loss. There are many others. Some are far away and yet feel so near as we talk about Loki through messages or calls. Some who come by, tell me they miss his presence in our home. Some have got me presents that acknowledge Loki. Quite a few of them give me that space and so there are more of these sorts of conversations that are needed at this time.

So, it’s not that the roller coaster ride has stopped. I’ve not figured out how to stop it. I don’t even know where the keys are kept that I may attempt to steal them! No. The roller coaster keeps going on. It’s just that I’ve got some amazing people along with me on the ride. They aren’t afraid to speak of sad things even in a season full of festivities. To me, this is really what relationships should be. Honest. Not ignoring the bad. Full of compassion. Present. With these, it feels that I am stepping off the roller coaster. It truly does.

For this epiphany, I thank Jesus, the one who is always there and who’s willing to do the overtime. As expressive and talkative as I am, he never says ‘enough’ and that is mind-blowing. He has sent me all these amazing people who help me through this. Over and above this, He is always, always there on the ride. He is the most amazing roller coaster companion. He is on the ride in a way that no other person can be. As such, there are moments, when I can’t articulate my feelings but He knows. He gets it. What blessing and grace, over and above the blessing we received that first Christmas. I am grateful.

My warmest Christmas greetings to all of you. My hope and prayer is that each heart truly finds Jesus on this roller coaster ride called life.

It’s exactly a month since my sweet Loki died. A whole month of me barely sleeping because I miss his presence right by me, my little fur ball. He would always try to put his little head on my shoulder, even as I slept. How I miss my boy.

It’s been a horrible month. We’ve been trying hard to come to terms with the quiet. Little things like me picking up my car keys used to be received with such delight. Oh how Loki’s tail would wag. He had such an expectant look on his face whenever I picked up keys or put on shoes. The adoration was always there too. My Loki loved me. Of course, I loved him. His loss has been hard to bear. I had to see an eye specialist, because my eyes swelled up. He told me I was crying too much. The same thing the ENT specialist said when I went to see him with congested sinuses. How do you not cry when you’re sad? I miss Loki.

We made some plans for Christmas before Loki died and I’m going ahead with them to try and keep myself busy. I’m thankful that there have been a wedding luncheon, birthday and wedding anniversary parties to attend. I’m sad to hear of not so pleasant things happening in the lives of family members or friends I hold dear. I’m gutted to hear of things not working out or getting too complicated. It’s painful to hear of loss of loved ones or of loved ones enduring loss too. So painful. I’m happy to hear of good things happening. There are reunions, job promotions and lots of different things going on. So many things, good and bad. Both of these occupy my mind and race to claim my attention, but I cannot shake the fact that my little Loki with his gooey-eyed grin or despondent look (when he wanted more attention than he was receiving) is no more here.

What have I learnt from this? For starters, I’m very in touch with my emotions. This surprises me. Many may say I’m not strong and it no longer bothers me. I know my world’s been turned upside down and I am sad. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out and crushed. I’m learning to pray my emotions. Without these, how insipid our prayers are. I’m learning not to sanitise my prayers. My emotions help me keep it real. I’m not living in some “pretend” or “positive vibes only” reality. My whole humanity – the happy and the sad amongst other aspects, really matter.

I’ve learnt that blessings come in all forms, and whatever the form, you have no control over how long they stay. My mum was a blessing. I’m forever going to be grateful for her. My granny was a blessing too. I recognise that the lovely Patches, my turkey thief was one blessing. These are just a few examples. Of course I should say what a beautiful blessing my baby Loki was. With his fragile body, he helped me understand that my own physical limitations didn’t need to mean that I couldn’t have a ball. He came into my life when I needed to learn this as my RA makes my physical limitations obvious. Loki’s lesson was clear and constant there. He came into my life at a time when I was ready to learn how to enjoy a moment. He was permanently by my side. The lockdowns we had because of COVID weren’t half bad because of my Loki. I have learnt that the characteristics of each blessing can be so vastly different but that you can’t help but love them.

Perhaps the biggest lesson of all that God has shown me through my sweet Loki is that it’s okay to have a heart that’s soft or susceptible to tears. It is okay to grieve – you needn’t hide it. It becomes a part of your make up. It doesn’t have to be avoided or hidden. There was so much beauty in my life with Loki. I never have to hide it or stop cherishing it. I don’t have to be stoic or pretend that everything is alright. Everything isn’t alright. Loki’s gone and I miss him.

Loki’s left a paw print in my heart. When I remember how things weren’t alright for Loki, and when I remember his zest for life and his many expressions, I realise that Loki showed me what it really is like to live the best he could in complete surrender to God. Loki was a better example of creation submitting to his creator than I have been. His brokenness was a part of him. How I loved him for it. So as I go through this season of grief for my lovely Loki, I want to recognise that God sees me and that my pain matters. This Loki lesson is painful but I must thank God for it. It isn’t the lesson I would’ve chosen for myself. It is however, the lesson I got taught. Loki showed me that no matter what my circumstances are, there is much to be grateful for and much to look forward to. I wish his PTSD hadn’t made it impossible for him to live. But I know he lived well for as long as he could despite it all. Oh Loki. What a lesson to have left me with.

I miss Loki very much.

In the past few days, I feel like I have been warped in sadness. Loki’s passing feels like I’ve lost a child. So young he was. Extremely cute. Immeasurably loving. So full of life one minute and gone the next. For Loki, a cruel hand dealt at the point of birth was simply impossible to overcome. It’s painful processing this. It’s shocking because of how it’s all panned out. It’s sad. 

Our home feels empty and terribly quiet. My dad and I feel like something’s missing and indeed, Loki is missing. He was part of our equation. Part of the family. I lost my mum quite awhile ago, and the reality of her loss hits me still, almost every day. It’s a reality that never goes away and now, with Loki gone, I’m sad for my dad and me and all those who shared in Loki whenever they came to our home or through a variety of other means, because I know this is what they will face. One friend who prayed for Loki when she learnt of some of his struggles shared with me that it was Loki who started her praying for our fur babies. We talked about how maybe her prayer list for all these precious pets could now be called the Loki List. We had a small chuckle but fell quiet again. There’s loss there. It’s a new reality. Loki’s gone. 

As I cry for Loki, there has been a great outpouring of love by family and friends and for this, I’m grateful. Messages coming through, not expecting an answer from me, not demanding to know what happened, have been really helpful. There has been so much thoughtfulness and care and I feel blessed in this sense. 

What I have found really annoying are the messages or calls that have come through demanding to know what’s happened to Loki. There’s been no expression of sorrow. There has been no compassion. There’s simply been no feeling. There’s been no moment to consider how I may be feeling at this time and whether it’s something I really need to relive again. Considering I’m struggling to sleep properly since Loki died, I’m going to say that I’m really not obliged to answer these “what happened” questions. 

There’s more. The messages, calls or conversations that have made me snap are the ones which nonchalantly suggest that I get another dog. Yeah. That should do it. Suppress this grief by getting another dog. It makes my blood boil. When someone loses a parent, child, spouse, sibling, family member or friend, do we suggest they go out and get another one? I don’t expect people to fully get how much Loki meant to me and what he was to our home. After all, not everyone gets how our fur kids become a part of our family. Saying that, I still find it so shocking, exasperating and infuriating to have such thoughtless comments come my way right now. Let me assure you, there is pain enough without these ridiculous comments, trying to come to terms with what’s happened. As I write this, I remember something that happened when my mum passed away. The magic cure to my grief at that point was to get married. Lord, have mercy! 

I am so grateful for the friends and family who have shared with me how they’ve dealt with loss of pets. This has been very helpful. I am so grateful for those who’ve messaged just to check in, without demanding any responses. They understand when I say I’m not up to chatting much. I’m super appreciative of those who’ve affirmed difficult decisions made and the terribleness of the entire experience. They’ve given me so much comfort. Am very grateful for those who have helped me express the shock in this horrible event. I’m so grateful for so many of my friends and family – just so kind and thoughtful. They’ve given me a space to grieve. I am grateful. I’m also grateful for time off work right now. It’s hard to focus on anything right now. 

Loss of any kind is hard. We don’t get to determine how hard or how significant the loss is. That is entirely the prerogative of the person suffering that loss. There are things that I don’t expect to cause me so much pain if I lost them. That’s inevitable, just as there are things that will hurt like crazy. No one else defines this- it’s my threshold. 

I am very grateful that I do have a God who knows pain. Jesus certainly felt all manner of pain and He relates to the brokenness of the world. Nothing was supposed to die or deteriorate. I’m fully appreciative of how Jesus wept when he went to Lazarus’ grave (John 11:5). He wept knowing full well that He was about to raise him. Why He wept has always interested me. He wept at the state of brokenness we’re in. The grip of sin over this world is indeed painful and He knew the cost of what He needed to do to redeem us. That really is at the nub of it. However, I don’t think many people then would’ve got it. Definitely not Martha and Mary or others grieving. I’m quite sure that Jesus also wept out of compassion for the pain and suffering humanity endures as a result of sin. This compassionate God helps me in the face of some of these thoughtless, hurtful comments and suggestions. Annoyed as I am over some of these, I’m sure Jesus sees me as I grieve over Loki. I’m sure He gets it- separation is horrible and the Trinity did experience it at a magnitude I’ll never know. I’m sure that the outpouring of love that I’m receiving from some of my family and friends is a result of His grace. For this, at this time, I am grateful and I thank Jesus, my friends and family who are helping me mourn Loki.

There are so many situations, where we feel helpless and simply have no control. Death is the obvious example. I’m writing this just after having buried Loki. Our home feels so empty and quiet and I’m missing him curled up by me as we turn in for the night. It all feels unreal. I’ve been wondering what I could’ve done differently- but I realise, I just didn’t have control. Loki was never mine to fix. He was mine to savour and treasure.

I named my darling boy, Loki, after the god of mischief from The Avengers. In Marvel’s Endgame, Thor watches helplessly while Thanos kills Loki. Whilst I wasn’t battling a Titan, I felt all the force of helplessness. There was nothing I could do to save my boy. This was a similarity I could’ve done without.

Little Loki was a miracle. He never should’ve survived being eaten by crows upon birth. What a tragic entrance into the world and what tenacity (on his part) and grace from God that he should survive. At 18 days, when I first got him, he was helpless, fragile and oh so loveable. It was hard work, feeding him around the clock. I know what it’s like to have interrupted sleep because of feeding, and a whole host of other parental duties that I took on with Loki. With every single minute, I loved him more and more. 

His antics were simply adorable and he well and truly lived up to his name. There was a point when I thought we had a rat upstairs because my clothes from the laundry basket had holes in them. It was quite by accident that I discovered Loki waking up super early, to grab some clothing from the laundry basket, play with it, put it back and quietly return to bed! I didn’t have the heart to tell him off or intervene as he was having a blast. Loki was also an avid gardener! He would happily pull apart any plant I paid attention to. He thought he was being good and helpful. He would come to get me to show me his handiwork. The biggest possible smile full of joy would light up his face as he showed his mama his gardening skills. He was just irresistible!

Anyone who’s been on a Zoom or Teams call with me will also know that Loki loves connecting with the world. He never failed to make an appearance. His trademark was to start jumping on me and being naughty so it looked like a hurricane happening on my end of the call. He timed things to perfection. Once I was presenting with other colleagues, and I decided to sit at the table so that he couldn’t get away with his star performances. Let me say that it didn’t stop him. Loki timed his part so well to start jumping about my ankles and going berserk under the table. It was all I could do to hang on to my countenance. The little fella was certainly a little god of mischief! I do remember thinking I had named him well. 

Loki’s tragic start to life meant that he was scarred with PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I worked so hard to try and get a grip of it. Consultations with trainers, vets- reading up and watching everything I could. Yet, it was too deeply rooted. This meant that he could snap at or bite someone without a trigger. The warning signs for these started rather early on. I kept record and kept trying out suggestions from the professionals I was consulting. Nothing worked for Loki. It was not to be. Unfortunately for my darling Loki and me. 

At the end of Loki’s life, he did the one thing that remained his favourite in his short three years. He climbed into my arms as the sedative took over. As I held my baby boy, I felt such sadness watching him trying to cling to me. I was helpless. That moment is going to be such a bittersweet moment forever etched in my memory. I told my darling boy I loved him. I think he knew I did. 

Loki’s life and death reminds me of the brokenness of the world. It also shows me how fruitless all our best efforts can be. We have no control over things. We simply don’t. I’m not sure how others with different world views process this. I know there are answers within the view I ascribe to, where God is the Creator of all things and where Jesus will establish His Kingdom when He returns. The new world is a wonder indeed, from the promises I read and believe in, for there will be no more tears or pain. I don’t know what the plan is for little ones like Loki. I know Jesus died for me – part of humanity. I do know too that as Creator, He’s terribly mindful of all creatures- nothing happens out of His control. Nothing happens in a void. Psalm 50:10-11 says: “[10] For every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. [11] I know all the birds of the hills, and all that moves in the field is mine.” This is just one. There are many verses about how God has not forgotten sparrows, whose worth is very little financially (Luke 12:6) or how the birds of the air are fed even when they do not sow or reap (Matthew 6: 26). I also remember how not just humans were saved in the flood, but all manner of creature. So- I am prepared to trust in Jesus for what the outcome will be for Loki, for I know that He is trustworthy. 

Knowing all this doesn’t mean that losing Loki will not hurt. It hurts and I think this hurt will be there for awhile. Loki was only three and so full of life. He loved to put his head on my shoulder wherever we were – whether it was while sitting on my bed or in the car. He kept in close body contact – you’d almost always find him attached to me. He loved giving out licks and nibbling on ears. One friend says that Loki used to nibble his beard! Loki was expressive and loud. There was no mistaking his feelings on things. He had a smile that captured my heart and he had a zest for life, despite his trauma and physical handicap. How I wish that his PTSD had been manageable. How I wish it hadn’t interfered with the quality of his life (and mine). I love Loki very, very much. Something tells me that I’m always going to love and treasure him, for the colour and joy he brought into these recent chapters of my life. For this blessing of Loki, I thank Jesus. 

This is difficult to write. It makes me consider how people see me and the value they attach to me. It opens up old wounds. It rattles me. This is difficult to write.

It is no secret that I suffer from rheumatoid arthritis. Close friends and family will know that I’ve been struggling to find a good rheumatologist. Some of the challenges are that they seem interested only in my insurance. I feel like I’m swatting flies who’re going after a plate of food. The interest is very clearly not in me but how much my insurance coverage is in its entirety and how we can exploit that. They say it in very helpful voices, if that’s of any consolation. It wasn’t for me. One was downright sneaky in some charges he put towards me. He wasn’t my surgeon, not part of the team attending to me, but was summoned for a follow up with me as I was warded and unable to go to him. He decided to stop by a couple of times a day for about a couple of minutes and thought it appropriate to whack full charges for these visits. It never occurred to him that he isn’t in the category of Benedict Cumberbatch, Brad Pitt or such others that I fancy, whose two minute presence may have resulted in a resurrection had I been on my deathbed. I jest, of course! Truth is, I lost trust in him. I’m disappointed in myself for how I barely confronted him about this. My mind was weighing the experience I had with yet another rheumatologist who had put me on steroids for ages and when I complained of terrible weight gain, stopped me cold turkey, caused a crash and told me rather righteously when I went crawling back that he had told me I needed steroids. It was a no-win situation. 

A friend shared an experience of a rheumatologist that I then went to. He seemed like he would be the right fit. The only thing is, she and I had very different experiences. It is how this guy saw me that really brings me to tears. All he saw was an overweight Indian girl before him. I was rather confused at how he labelled all my problems as “because you’re Indian…” and I was stunned by some of the steps he asked me to take. I’m not going to explain those here, because I can’t share it with everyone. I’m actually embarrassed that someone proposed these steps to me. I shared it with some friends. Suffice to say, the course of action suggested was well out of bounds and simply dangerous. In my naïveté, I asked whether his suggestion would make me better. He said it would make me look better. Talk about a sucker punch. 

Familiar as it was, I hadn’t understood the shaky, defensive feeling I had every single time I was before him. Familiar as it was, I hadn’t understood the confusion within because I thought he was a good doctor. He wasn’t being good to me. Familiar as it was, I also hadn’t realised that I was sinking back into not wanting my photograph taken, wearing extra large clothes, having conversations in my head where I dismissed myself because of how I look. Thankfully the descent hasn’t been too bad. I’ve managed to catch myself. The moment I realised that he couldn’t see me- that he had no regard for my humanity because I am of Indian descent and because I am not at a perfect body weight, I cried. Familiar as it was, the hot, tears that were painfully trying to crawl down my face were hard to take. I cried so hard. It was all too familiar. The sucker punch mentioned drew in the realisation. 

I’m tired of it. The young doctor I’m now seeing jumped out of his chair when he heard some of the suggestions made. Friends gape at me when I tell them the actual situation. My dad shook his head in disgust. I haven’t been wrong in my reactions. My hurt is justified. But I’m so sick of it. I’m fed up that externals such as the colour of my skin and how light or heavy I am determines a person’s appreciation of me. 

I miss my mum so much right now. She’d probably have marched into that doctor’s office to give him a rocket. But she’s not here now. Thankfully though, I have many of her words pressed so deeply within my memory. One of the things she taught me so many years ago was that I was made in the image of God and that who I am was not separate from how I looked, and neither how I look or the strengths and demons within me formed who I am completely. I’m reading an excellent book on this right now and my heart swells with pride to see that it was something mum taught me years ago. I guess there is huge progress this time because I’ve not descended into anger with how I look or too much despair about who I am. I have at different points worked so hard on either of these – it’s devastating when you do that. I am relieved this time to see that this recognition of being made in the image of God is actually bringing me a certain measure of comfort and I hope that it will help me derive more comfort as I process the acceptance I have in Christ. 

The hurt is real. But the one big change this time is, I want to respond well. I don’t want to respond with just anger festering in me. Initially I caught myself calling the doctor all sorts of names. I remember shooting down all the bullies who tormented me in my past. Mum told me then, that they too were image bearers of the same God we worshipped- even if they weren’t behaving like it. This is the hard part. I’m determined not to brutalise the doctor verbally to the point that I forget that he is an image bearer. I’m hoping that learning to take the right steps -which may or may not involve a complaint, will help me forgive him. I’m not so keen on turning the other cheek- but if this is what it takes for me to be a better image bearer, then processing it is worthwhile. It feels like I’m fighting for my humanity. The doctor didn’t see my humanity. He was incapable of it because of his prejudices. I shouldn’t lose my humanity in how I battle this wrong. I say now that following Jesus is hard work! I need grace. 

This is hard to write. I’m insecure as I write this because I know full well that someone can say “ahh- but that doctor was right about you.” If it came from someone else, it would hurt. It would hurt like crazy. Yet- I think there has been a certain amount of healing within me from past experiences of prejudice, and I think a lot of it is because I have had Jesus and the space to speak about it. I have had so much support come my way especially through my mum and now from some wonderful friends. 

I write because I hope that if ever anyone I know faces hurt because of inexplicable prejudices, there is hope beyond this pain. This stain, scar, blot, whatever we want to call it, isn’t the end of things. We aren’t just accidental beings that have come into existence. If we were, there shouldn’t be a problem what anyone says. It shouldn’t matter. We aren’t just creatures who can take the high ground, like martyrs who march on stoically. Crikey! No. We have feelings and these matter. We matter. There is more to who we are: we aren’t just aesthetic beings, neither are we just moral ones. We are shaped by both these aspects of our being. 

As I ponder on this, I recognise that Jesus was also human. Creator, yet, begotten. He identified as human. I’m gobsmacked by that thought. Why would He do that? Why give up glory? Why exchange it for something like our humanity, which has demonstrated beyond doubt its fragility? He bore the image of God far better than I or any of us can. Yet, He wasn’t recognised for who He was. He endured hell for us on that cross. That magnificent, inexplicable, and extremely unbelievable act of grace shows me that because of Him, when someone else dismisses or misses my humanity, as painful as it is, is not the be all and end all. His grace shows me that my response in the face of this, can mirror perhaps a smidgen of His response to those who failed to see His Lordship in His humanity. He didn’t deal with us as we deserved. He showed masses of grace. So angry, sad and disappointed as I am that I am facing this, I will be mindful of this doctor being an image bearer and be considerate in how I respond to his dismissal of me. 

I’m also taking steps to ensure that my feelings are properly processed and I will give myself the time I need to heal from this. For this, I hope and pray that God gives me the strength I need. In the meantime, I will be saying a prayer for me and the many people out there who face all sorts of prejudice that is so very destructive.

Today, my father turned 89. That’s quite a blessing, I think, because there’s not one thing that we can do to add or subtract to our lives. I’d been wondering what to do- how to celebrate. It was something that I pondered on for quite a bit.

These days, I recognise that it’s no longer possible for me to cook for large crowds. It’s no longer possible for me to cook for any sort of crowd. It’s an achievement when I do it for dad and me. So for this lunch party, whilst it wasn’t the most complicated sort of do, wasn’t easy for me. Thankfully, I had options! I ordered food from a much trusted food business run by friends. Boy! Did they deliver! The food was magnificent. I didn’t for a second doubt the quality of what I’d get, but I guess I doubted my ability to organise things when the family arrived. It is hard for me to carry dishes, serve food, etc. This is yet another layer of ability that my illness has taken away from me. But there were blessings all around. 

A cousin helped me carry tables and chairs. I couldn’t have done this. Our helper made herself available for every single thing I needed in the days leading up to today. My aunt refused to let me wash the table cloths she had lent me for the tables I’d borrowed from her, and she made and brought some incredibly yummy desserts. Another aunt and uncle brought heaps of a popular local food, and I must mention that my aunt helped me with buying flowers and a few things I needed. Another cousin organised drinks, while his power-house wife and yet another cousin helped organise all the food to be put out on the tables. In the end, I was an able host, because I was enabled. 

My heart is so full as I sit and ponder on this. In fact, I’m dreadfully missing my mother right now. My cousins and the rest of the family may think their contributions were small. They haven’t a clue how big a deal they are to me because I’m no longer that able! It has been such a struggle dealing with the loss of ability in hosting. Gone are the days when I would spend an entire two weeks buying and prepping bits and bobs that could be frozen, etc. just for one party. Now – I have to look for food options, maybe even dessert and whatnots. I hadn’t realised how stressed I was about even being able to put the food out. My mum would get it. She suffered from the same chronic illness. She would so get its debilitating nature. The push I give myself is fairly big – on most days, I have to counter fatigue, by not giving in, which is not a pleasant experience. It’s hard to explain how it feels when your whole body works against you – a strange sort of inertia that holds you back, without ever setting you free. Yet – today, my heart is full.

Yes, my heart is full because my dad’s 89th birthday had us surrounded by a set of blessings in the form of my family. We’ve shared a history: some of it hasn’t been great, some of it has been sad, some full of hope and victory and on days such as today – so full of love, kindness, joy and unity. So I do thank my God. I thank Him for this blessing that He granted us today. I thank Him for the grace that surrounded not just dad, but me – in the form of my family, for all the strength that He gave me through them, to fill our home with the noise of laughter and chatter. 

One day, I hope my family realise how they enabled me today, to do what I wanted to do. Today, I recognise that it was through the grace of God that I was granted this. How He moves mountains! Today, I can say that despite this debilitating illness, I can be thankful and that I can count it as joy that I have been met with the trial of this illness, for today, it has produced an even greater desire within me to be faithful  to Jesus. Soli Deo Gloria! 

Some of the things that we’re called to do as Christians are so mind blowing. A lot of it feels so very impossible to do perfectly, and if we’re honest about it, sometimes, these feel like recipes for disasters. No wonder we can’t seem to get it right. This is a big struggle.  

It is a very real struggle too, considering the impact of the call we have, to love others. In Mark 12: 30-31, Jesus says that the most important command is to love God with all our hearts, souls, minds, and strength. As if that’s not difficult enough, He goes on to say that second most important command is to love your neighbour as you love yourself. I know our initial instinct is to say we love lots of people. I know that I start throwing together a list of names of people I love and show love to. Almost as quickly or perhaps, defensively, I make sure I include someone who is difficult to love. Maybe by this I demonstrate that I’ve not been taking it easy. Just maybe.

I start to relax for just a moment, as I think about things that I say and do to show love. Granted, my expressions of love aren’t perfect, something I readily admit, but I am loving, I think. Just maybe! Yet it gets worrying when I start unpacking different parts of scripture about what it means to be loving. The discussion gets a little bit awkward as we ponder this.

We know the reasons we are to love one another. Love is from God and whoever loves is of God and knows God (1 John 4: 7). We all want to be the people who are of God and who know God. Heaven forbid it that we don’t have a claim to this! The ante is upped when we read on, for it explains how the love of God was manifest among us. To be clear, this happens when God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him (1 John 4: 9). Somehow this familiarity makes us relax again. This good God, sending His obedient Son to save us. The joke on a t-shirt, with Jesus holding court to a captive audience made up of the Avengers saying “…and that’s how I saved the world,” pops into my mind. I love it. This Jesus is good. Yet am I really seeing how good He is?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been a Christian for a long time, familiar words that often give comfort are also the very same words I gloss over. It says very clearly that God sent his only Son into the world so that we might live through him (1 John 4: 9). Perhaps the most famous verse of all denoting this is in John 3: 16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” Such familiar, comforting words. I believe in Jesus and so I will have eternal life. I sum this up so easily. All clean and sanitized. It’s easy to forget that Jesus came to die because of my sin. Gosh, that fall in Genesis 3 seems like ages ago! It was ages ago, but the magnitude of it is deep and foul. The same sin has permeated over the ages and there is in a sense, a hardening of our hearts over time. That is clear, when we look at how fewer and fewer people acknowledge God’s very existence, or how we succumb to teachings and patterns of behaviour that alienate people from God. Even among believers, we have moments of compromise which lead followers down a path of no return. No wonder then, the sin attached to me from the fall in Genesis 3, seems almost an alien concept. It is hard to fully grasp sin and perhaps that is why it is hard to fully grasp what sin causes.

Jesus knew the hearts of those He died for. He knew the grip that sin had over those gone before and still has over those of us here in the present. He knew the grip it will have over those who are to come after us and prior to His return. He knew, and what He knew gave Him no comfort. At the Mount of Olives, where He prayed for the removal of the cup, we are told that His sweat was like great drops of blood (Luke 22:44). Many of the commentaries say that this is a possible medical situation when a person is put under extreme pressure. In the Old Testament, ‘cup’ refers to the judgment of God (Jeremiah 25: 15, Isaiah 51: 17, Psalm 75:8). It seems clear that the idea of God’s judgment upon Him for all our sin was unbearable to Jesus. It is likely that the reality of the abandonment of God was real and horrendous to Him. The horror of horrors that we fail to really appreciate is being cast out of the presence of God. It is easy to say we want nothing to do with God or cast all sorts of aspersions of God while living in this world that is full of grace that isn’t always apparent to us. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus probably had that insight. It is staggering then to think that knowing this, He still went to the cross. So, the righteous Jesus, completely holy, drank the cup of the wrath of God. And God crushed Him. This takes Jesus’ love for us to a whole new level. Where does it put my capacity for love at?

The full force of the words in 1 John 3: 16 come into effect: “By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers.” The whole thing is further enhanced when we remember what Jesus said: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you.” (John 15: 12 – 14). The benchmark is set. How do I love as my Lord commanded? We would be so wrong to try and do this by way of a check list. Jesus, the holy and righteous God, condescended to love His all of us, who in many parts of the Bible, are described as His enemies because our sin cut us off from Him. We talk about how sin has permeated the world and the frustrations it has caused us in our relationship with God, all creation and with ourselves. Life is so hard. There are so many levels of complications. Everything is hard. Life is so hard. We get jaded over time. We’re tired. We seem to be operating against the very order of things – we know something is very, very wrong. These frustrations will only end when we are in God’s presence. Only His presence is the ultimate balm that will drive all this vexation away. We need His presence in our lives, and we are separated by it because of sin. There is a part of me that is rational and relies on historic evidence for the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus (which I find credible) to uphold my faith. And there’s this other part of me, that is blown away by the glimpses I get into the substance of it all. How can I rationalize a holy and righteous God dying for a sinful me so that I am not deprived of His presence and face the consequence of my sin? How can I explain this to anyone? Yet, it has set my heart abuzz. Jesus came for me. He died for me! I am so loved. This changes everything.

I recognize that my capacity to love is never going to be like my Lord’s. I cannot imagine life without vexation. What would it be like to not even be irritated by something? To be so at peace, content and to feel so loved? Without this love of God, I can’t be so loved. There is a benchmark. Jesus has thrown down the gauntlet. Love is impossible. Don’t get me wrong. We love and receive some measure of love. We feel the need to love and to be loved. We try. We seek to do what’s right. We seek to be there for our family, friends, and our community. At many levels, we have some measure of success. We feel loved by our family, friends, and our community. We’re also able to make them feel loved. There is such a lot of great emotion and feeling that comes out of these acts of love given and received. There are many great highs. There are devastating lows when we lose that love, whether because of death or some other reason. We know we’re feeling it. Yet, all of these are a mere microcosm of the love that God has shown us. We’ve not even begun to scratch the tip of the iceberg. Not even close. It is so hard to fathom what Jesus has done. There is doubt and disbelief because we simply cannot imagine such love. Jesus’ return is bad and good news. For those who reject Him, they will feel the full brunt of the wrath of God. In Gethsemane, remember, Jesus’ sweat was like droplets of blood when He was given a preview of what it would be like to face God’s wrath. It’s a scary picture. For believers, Jesus’ return will be joy beyond belief. It’s only when Jesus returns that we will truly be able to feel how glorious it all is. The vexation and frustration will end. Our unworthiness and sin, all the filth, none of it, can separate us from the love of God (Romans 8: 38 – 39). It will mean no more pain and no more tears (Revelation 21:4). We will no longer mourn or cry. We will feel such joy, for we will finally be able to fully love and feel the love we were meant to know. What joy that will be! What joy! 

 

Recently, in conversation with friends, I’ve been at my wits end trying to explain how I’ve been processing pain. My RA has decided to up the ante where pain is concerned. Things have got more difficult. Just when I thought I maybe had a handle on things, it showed me up! So not cool!

There are a whole set of things that have changed for me. Getting dressed is such hard work. In total, it took me 2.5 hours to properly dress myself on a day when the pain was at its highest. I had to stop and rest in between, which shows in the time taken. I was dripping in sweat, because of the effort it took. Again – so uncool. It’s not a good look. I did have a moment of the giggles in the middle of all this as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Hair plastered to my head from the sweating, giving me the ultimately perfected wet rat look. That did crack me up. I was relieved for the laughter as it certainly beat the tears. It was such hard work getting into home clothes – nothing special or elaborate. A whole new set of circumstances, filled with many flashback memory triggers as I recalled episodes my mum had dressing herself and things I did to try and help. I’ve got a range of emotion running through me here. 

Doing stuff has just got harder too. I do find myself wishing for the ever wise, incomprehensibly efficient Jeeves. I wouldn’t have to plan so hard to be as strategic as I possibly can to give myself less pain. It would be doable. Coffee and toast may be enjoyable at a decent temperature. It’s usually cold by the time I’m ready to consume them after the battle I’ve gone through to prep. I no longer move about efficiently in my own kitchen. Many grandiose ideas of cooking a meal for me and dad die at birth. So uncool. Doing my office work has just got harder. It’s like my mind is ready to shut down and sleep. The pressure I feel to be professional is overwhelming. I sound exhausted, I feel a fog encompassing my thoughts. I battle this with coffee as the caffeine helps. If only it were that simple making a coffee. So uncool! 

In the midst of all this, I get a whole drudge of unhelpful advice. “Don’t think about it,” the unhelpful voice says. I wonder if they’d be able to successfully ignore the burning pain within each joint In their body when they moved. I’d love to know how to ignore that! I’d love to know how to not think about it when my movement involuntarily causes me to tear because of pain. My mind envisions a moment where I am like Captain America, delivering a lesson to these unhelpful muppets with a couple of quick smacks and kicks thrown in. A few more chuckles. I am thankful for these. 

Lying down and sleeping are hard to do. It’s hard to get comfortable. I can’t lie on either shoulder at the moment. My joints decide to show up at bed time. My knees feel like they’re locked and when I try to move them, my ankles grind away to remind me not to put pressure on them. My elbows seem to want in on the action and refuse to straighten, while my wrists and knuckles seem to be twisting in weird directions. At points, it feels like my joints are beatboxing. That thought makes me laugh too. Not for long though. Beat boxes are cool. This is so uncool. By the time I start falling asleep, it’s usually about 4 in the morning. By this time, sheer exhaustion has kicked in. My mind has had some conversation with Jesus. I’m telling Him that He’s going to be in for it if He doesn’t let me sleep. I tell Him it’s going to be a long night. And that makes me laugh too coz He and I don’t experience time the same way, do we? I start drifting off finally, only to have my alarm ring in what feels like 5 minutes later. At this stage, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. Now the whole thing starts again. So uncool.

In the midst of this, I’m so thankful for those steady friends who keep the communications up. I’m so grateful for the assurances of prayer and Bible verses sent to me. That’s a big push in the daily battle cry I make because I am being supported by prayer. I am so thankful to the ones who faithfully send me stuff to make me laugh, or to include me in life: photos or videos of things that I’m not able to witness or do alongside them are so uplifting. I love the updates on various other things that are happening to them in the middle of all this, because it’s engaging, and different. Simply inclusive. I thank God for all of these ones. They are so cool. 

Processing these changes hasn’t been easy. I know Jesus has power. I know He can heal all. Coming to a place where I can say with no amount of cynicism that He is good, even when the rest of my body isn’t feeling good, hasn’t been easy. I saw my mum go through this. So I have a glimpse of what the future holds for me here on earth. Hence, Jesus’ healing powers would be most welcome. Whilst that negotiation is ongoing, and yes – I call all my petitions negotiations because I don’t stop asking when there’s a no, I am conscious of what else He’s showing me. Many years ago, when I expressed sorrow for her situation, my mum said how if it hadn’t been precisely for her situation, she wouldn’t see Jesus the way she did. I did not understand at that time. I do now. Almost as soon as I wrote that I laugh out- what a slow learner I must be! Mum was so right. Every moment, every situation in my life has been ordained by God. Ultimately, Jesus wants me to rest completely in Him. I can see that He’s stripping away the independence that I’ve been so fiercely protective of as well as the abilities that I have been so happy to call upon. It’s not being done cruelly. I still am independent. He’s given me that. But He’s showing me the need I have for Him 24/7. He’s given me a need for Him that wouldn’t be there otherwise. He’s not taken away all my abilities. Granted, it takes me ages to get do things, but He has granted me creativity and given me a lot of help. Heaps of help, through some very loving souls placed in my life. It’s hard to explain, and the credit doesn’t go to me, but it is Him making me consciously live out less of me and more of Him. He is there every step of the way. The thing is, it is very liberating too. When I let go of my independence or abilities, I tap into His. It’s so freeing as it comes in so many different ways. He puts people in my life, enables conversations, gives me help and support through them, builds me up mentally and emotionally through His Word, that despite my illness, I’m never in a position to say that I’m in want, for I’m not. My mum tried to explain this to me so long ago. I was too full of my own independence and loving my own abilities, that I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t understand. 

I am writing this especially to my brothers and sisters in Christ. Do not despair for me. And if your circumstances are crushing you, may this encourage you. Look for Him and you will find. It will not mean that the circumstance itself goes away, so it may not be that healing, financial relief, answered prayer for a partner or a child or something else. It may not be a better job or craved acceptance socially. It may not be what you want. It will be what you need. It will be Jesus. It is very cool.

Easter 2022 is around the corner! I’m quite excited about it because a few friends are coming over to ours to have lunch with dad and me. I’ve already ordered the food. A friend has bought loads of Easter egg chocolates for our lunch, and another is helping me pick the food up from the caterer. We’re anticipating a lovely afternoon together. My dad is also quite excited about it. It will be wonderful to have these dear brothers and sisters back in our home. I’ll be saying extra prayers that Loki behaves. I think he too can sense the excitement. We’re looking forward to a celebration. As I think on this little get together that is bringing me so much joy, my mind cannot but help think on what my dad, brothers and sisters in Christ and I are celebrating.

          Christians celebrate Easter because Jesus rose from the dead. It must sound rather bizarre to a non-believer’s ears. We believe that Jesus rose from the dead! It’s not an instance where we’ll need to run out and call the ghostbusters or anything like that. I don’t watch enough horror or zombie movies to make an even more specific reference to them, but Jesus’ rising from the dead is nothing like what is depicted in this genre. Easter has also got nothing to do with bunnies and chocolate Easter eggs! Nothing at all. I am very grateful for those chocolate Easter eggs but that’s nothing compared to why we really celebrate Easter.

          Jesus rose from the dead. It’s scary to think about it. If such power does exist, it must be very big. It crushes the authority of death. It’s overwhelming to consider it. It goes against the very grain of human thought. There are very few things in life that are certain, and one thing that no one escapes is death! Even people who don’t believe in God or people who profess other faiths, all believe in death. I can imagine a sensory overload for anyone who even starts to contemplate the fact that Jesus rose from the dead.

          The question that comes up almost immediately is, if Jesus is this power that can defeat death, how could he then have died? The Bible tells us He laid His life down for us. I guess that then begs the question, why? Why would this almighty, powerful being, with the ability to crush death, lay down His life? The answer that must follow is not popular. Jesus died for our sin. He died to reconcile us to God. It was a thoughtful, loving, merciful and generous thing that Jesus did for us. He died to reconcile us to God because our sin had broken that communion we had with God.

It is quite difficult to grasp this idea of sin. In today’s culture, we seek to constantly affirm everyone. We tell people how they are amazing and how they’ve got this or that. We affirm their decisions and lifestyle choices. This really doesn’t work very well. There is a sense of injustice that we feel when someone wrongs us. If we go by the modern standard of affirmation, we’d probably have to consider the person’s culture, whatever trauma they’ve been subjected to and factor in whichever orientation or identity they lean towards as well as some very subjective beliefs they may hold. We find some way to justify and affirm them, to give them reprieve. Yet, this isn’t something we can do when we are wronged. We are aggrieved or indignant when someone treats us wrongly, and it is because there is a sense of right and wrong that we somehow adhere to. If we didn’t, then no one would flinch at some of the wrongs that go on. It wouldn’t matter what serial killers, paedophiles and fraudsters do. It wouldn’t matter if someone yelled at us wrongly or thinks unkindly of us when it isn’t justified. Even if we’ve been overcharged or given poor advice, we feel wronged. The reality is, it does matter when someone wrongs us. It follows then, that it matters that humanity has wronged God. Sin matters.

If sin matters, then there needs to be some consequence. It isn’t necessarily a good thing to be able to ignore a wrong. To imperfect people, turning a blind eye to sin may be doable. We may not always speak or stand up for or against something at the right times. We may be willing to overlook things quite easily because we don’t always want the hassle. It gets tiring doing the right thing, and quite frankly, we don’t really want to be dismissed or cancelled out for trying to address a wrong. We sometimes get a bit judgmental and say it’s a matter of karma. You reap what you sow. Except that you get what you deserve doesn’t work well when you are unjustifiably wronged. For a holy God, this option of ignoring sin is unacceptable. All wrong must be addressed. Therefore, Jesus died for us.

Jesus’ role in this entire series of events is staggering. He is God. He was present at the creation of the world. His glory is inherent. Yet, He emptied Himself of this glory to be born as a human being with the sole purpose of paying the penalty for our sin. It isn’t easy for us to grasp how big this is, simply because we don’t have anything that is inherently glorious and all things that we attach significance to, from which we derive our glory have no inherent glory of their own. In fact, any glory they offer or any significance they pretend to have, is temporary. Think about it. Our careers, homes, looks or body image, relationships, travel destinations, knowledge, lifestyles, etc. are all things that bring us glory. That is why we attach so much significance to them. The list is endless. Yet we know that none of these are permanent. We have so little control over how they pan out and things go wrong so easily. It is hard to imagine what it would’ve been for Jesus, who is inherently glorious, to lay this down and become one of us. He is completely striped of any glory when He is humiliated, beaten, and worse still, He is deserted by close friends. He is then crucified, and as if the pain of losing all significance isn’t enough, it is compounded when He is forsaken by the Father. That is the ultimate break. The pain must have been simply unbelievable. Yet, because of God’s attribute of holiness, sin had to be dealt with. God’s attribute of mercy kicks in, and He takes it upon Himself. All our pain, all our suffering didn’t fall on us, where it rightly belongs, but fell on Jesus.

The story doesn’t end there. Jesus rose. Ahh, but was he dead in the first place? Jesus’ death had been confirmed by Roman centurions. They pierced His side to make sure of it. He died. He was buried. His disciples were shattered. They were afraid and lonely. Sorrow permeated and dark days seemed to lie ahead. A visit to the grave three days later, threw everyone into further confusion. Jesus’ body wasn’t there. Mary and the other disciples wondered if His body had been stolen. A new trauma faced them. Where was Jesus’ body? The cloth used to wrap his body in was folded tidily. An angel declared that Jesus was risen! No one knew what hit them. There were no immediate shouts of joy or celebration. They still didn’t know. They didn’t fully understand. It was only when the Holy Spirit, the promised comforter, who would teach them all things came, that they could well and truly appreciate what had happened. How that strikes me.

Why does it strike me, you ask? I guess it just goes to my love of celebrating things. I love celebrating birthdays, success, and any sort of good news. Easter is great news! It’s the best news possible. We derive joy from many things, such as relationships, work, recognition, etc. Again, it’s another endless list. However, these joys are short lived. They are circumstantial. People pass away or leave us. Work situations can be frustrating. We don’t’ always get the recognition we crave. Circumstances change. How different it is from the joy a believer gets from the good news of Easter.

What is this joy that Easter gives a believer? It is reconciliation with God, through the death and resurrection of Jesus. That is something that is perfected. It is done. It’s not going away. It’s not a circumstance. It’s fact. Thanks to the Holy Spirit who opens our eyes to scripture, we know that Jesus is our advocate with the Father. He demands justice for us, and He gets it because He paid our penalty under the law. Clothed in His righteousness, we are free from the web of sin. We will see this certain promise play out when He comes again. Right now, we still have struggles with sin. We fall and fall again. Our imperfections hurt us and hurt those around us. We are constantly struggling against sin. It’s not easy. The world is so full of sorrow and troubles. Yet, we have the guarantee of Jesus’ promise, through the Spirit. He reminds us, instructs us, and enlightens our hearts. He convicts us of our sins and focuses us on the joy we have in Christ. Though we have pain from our circumstances, our souls know joy because of the resurrected Christ. That is well and truly something for us to celebrate!

I know that any celebration I have planned pales in comparison to heaven’s glories. Yet, with all my heart and soul, I want to joy in this moment, as I remember the glory of my risen Lord. He has defeated death so that I can live! How can I not celebrate this?