Resurrecting Easter: A Three Part Series

Part Three: Just Keep Breathing

This is the third part of my Easter Trilogy, but I cannot tie up all the loose ends. There is no box with a bow, no “happily ever after” as of yet. I have not come to the end of my Easter story. But that’s probably because I am still breathing. God is not finished with the path I have to walk. So I keep walking. And I keep singing, for praise is a powerful weapon against the darkness and the unknown.

And I keep breathing. I have several friends who have a “word of the year” for 2018. These are words like “Inspire,” “Grow,” “Flourish,” and so forth. My word for the year? “Breathe.” Just keep breathing. Because some days that’s all I have the strength to do…take it one breathe at a time.

With that in mind, with this post I will follow in the path of many great writers. When you don’t know what to say, steal someone else’s words. But it’s not stealing, really, if you give credit where credit is due. So, thank you, J.R.R. Tolkien, for being so inspiring, and for writing this wonderful little conversation about the stories that really mattered.

“Yes, that’s so,” said Sam. “And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that there were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them usually—their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on—and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same—like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?”

“I wonder,” said Frodo. “But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending,

but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.” (JRR Tolkien, The Two Towers)

These words brings me back to the first Resurrection weekend. The disciples didn’t know, on that Friday night or that Saturday, what Sunday would bring. We look back knowing The Rest Of The Story and think them foolish because Jesus had told them multiple times that he was going to die and then come back to life. But Jesus had said a lot of things in parables, in stories, about fig trees and pearls of great price and wedding feasts with bridegrooms and virgins and lamps…and despite all this the disciples were completely clueless, for they were in the middle of their story. They had watched their leader, their rabbi, the head of their little tribe, be executed in the most brutal way the Roman empire could imagine. No one had ever come back from being crucified. Was this just another one of His parables? How could this possibly end well? In the middle of the story, they did not know, they could not know. So perhaps we can look on their fear and trembling with some grace.

I know, today, that Jesus did indeed rise from the dead, that He is now seated at the right hand of God.

I know that Frodo and Sam make it to Mount Doom, complete their mission, and then make it home again (I’m not even sorry if I spoiled it for you…the story is 80 years old, it’s not my fault if you haven’t read it or seen the movies yet.)

What I don’t know is what is going to happen tomorrow. Or next week. Or next Easter. I am still in the middle of my story. God does not give me more than a few pages of the story at a time. I see it unfold as it happens. But I can have faith that it will unfold, for God is the Author and Finisher of my story.

Is it easy to keep walking through uncertain, troubling times? Of course not. But we have such treasures of hope in the Scriptures! We know from Isaiah 25:8 that God will “swallow up death for all time, And the Lord GOD will wipe tears away from all faces.” Do we feel the sting and pain of death and loss today? Yes…yes we absolutely do. But we walk in glorious faith, knowing that Jesus, “for the joy set before Him, endured the cross and is now at the right hand of God.” (Hebrews 12:2). 

And so, until I come to the end of my story, I must keep believing that God will see me through. I keep walking. I keep singing. And. I. Just. Keep. Breathing.

Resurrecting Easter: A Three Part Series

Part Two: The Agony Of Defeat

Easter of 2010 was glorious. I had successfully given up chocolate for Lent and had subbed as the sound tech at the military chapel in Italy. Sunrise service came and went with glorious song. It was perfect. My last wonderful Easter.

Christmas of 2010 was pretty fantastic too…we got to go home for Christmas and see my family, including my grandmother (my mom’s mom), who my kids called “GG” because she refused to admit that she was actually old enough to be a “Great Grandmother.” But then GG got sick, and didn’t improve.

Plans for the spring were made with a backdoor, a “what if,” a “just in case.” Any hotel reservations I made for Spring Break had to be cancelable at the  last minute with no fee. I mean, we get used to doing this anyway with the Army, but this was just another time to be making very tentative plans. Then my husband had to go away to school in Arizona, so all those four-person plans became three-person plans and I needed a child care backup because last-minute flights to America ain’t cheap. 

On the Thursday before Easter, Maundy Thursday, I got the call that GG had passed away. I raced home and packed up the kids, packed up myself, and bought ridiculously expensive plane tickets. Dad told me not to come, but there was no way I was NOT going to be there. I spent Good Friday on a plane, on a trip that lasted forever. Easter Sunday was surreal that year, in a borrowed dress because the airline lost my luggage, surrounded by sisters and parents and nieces and nephews but SO ALONE without my own little family. I said at the time that it was the worst Easter ever. 

The next Easter was the last we would spend in Italy. It was a beautiful day, but had its own bittersweetness to it, as all “lasts” will. The cover photo on my Facebook page was taken on that day. I can’t bear to change it. The triumph of the cross, in the face of a death that is now tied to a holiday, is something I cling to even 7 years later.

Easter of 2013 found us in America, in Clarksville, Tennessee. This was not a good year for us. Moving back to the states, with the “reverse culture shock,” had been very difficult and I was sick most of the time. Add to this that my husband was gone for about half of our time there..including Easter. That year the holiday fell on Spring Break and the kids and I drove down to “the farm” to spend time with my husband’s family. When we got there, we found that Grandma Faye was very ill and not expected to recover. I don’t remember much about that week except for two phone conversations. I called my Aunt crying, “I don’t want to lose another Grandmother on Easter, I’ve done this already and I don’t want to do it again.” The other was with my husband, as we tried to decide when to head back to Tennessee or to stay for the funeral, should Grandma Faye pass while we were there. “What do you want to do?” he asked. “I want to stay in New Braunfels forever and not go back to Tennessee,” I bawled. But go back we did. We left Texas on Saturday and drove for two days to get home. That was probably the first time in my life that I was not in church on Easter Sunday. We got home and heard that Grandma Fay had passed on Easter Sunday afternoon.

Easter was losing “treasured holiday” status as fast as it had been gained.

We got out of the Army in November of 2013 and limped back to “the farm” to lick our wounds and determine what civilian life would look like. Eventually we found a house of our own, a church of our own, and several Easters passed without incident. There was still a heaviness that surrounded the holiday. Joy was there in full force because Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed! But the holiday remained a reminder of loss. Slowly, though, one Easter at a time, it became easier to handle.

Until March 29, 2017, when a bus crash killed 13 members of our church, two and a half weeks before Easter. I am not going to dwell on that night because I have written about it before (here and also here). That Easter was a Sunday like no other. I experienced the power of song in ways that I had not before. My broken soul wept and rejoiced at the same time, for even though we do walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, we fear no evil, for we know the Lord is with us and He is triumphant.

Easter this year is on April 1. Just two days after the anniversary of the bus accident. I have been dreading it for months. So many hurts tied up in one holiday, and each pain seems to amplify the other. I find myself walking a dark road emotionally at this time, going through unrelated struggles greater than any I have faced before. It’s hard. It’s stupid hard. I know that God will see me through, every step of the way. But that doesn’t make the way easier.

Resurrecting Easter: A Three Part Series

Part One: In The Beginning

Christmas is my FAVORITE holiday. Bells. Lights. Snow. (Well...in Texas...we can pretend.) Cookies. Special movies. THE BEST MUSIC. Everything about Christmas makes me giddy, bouncing on my toes, clapping my hands and squealing like a little girl. Easter…Easter is different.

Easter was a joyous holiday when I was a child. Baskets. Bunnies. Bonnets. New matching dresses each year that Mom usually made for her three little blonde girls. White shoes (finally!). Christ the Lord is Risen Today! Haaaaaaaaaa-le-lu-ia! It was a day to look forward to every year for many reasons. 

Resurrection Sunday is a holy day, a day to celebrate for sure. But growing up Baptist I had no lead up to Easter, not really. It just…was…one Sunday, sudden and unpredictable date-wise, although different from other Sundays. I had Catholic friends in high school and they suddenly ate fish on Fridays (I resolved every year to give up broccoli for Lent but Mom would have none of it.) But other than that, for me, Easter…just…happened.

It wasn’t until we moved to New Braunfels that Easter gained real meaning. Our pastor preached one Sunday that “Christmas is Easter, Part One; and Easter is Christmas, Part Two.” Suddenly the two church holidays were connected in a new way. Bookends, if you will. I began looking for, and finding, connections between the two days. Many Christmas carols point to the cross. Bethlehem would always lead to Calvary. I paid more attention, sort of, to the days leading up to Easter. But for Texas Baptist Laura, Easter was still a day that snuck up on me with that silly moveable date habit that it has. It had a special holiness, especially with the connection to Christmas, but it still…just…happened. Until we moved to Italy.

Moving to a foreign country changes the way you see the world. Moving to Catholic Country also changed the way I saw the calendar. I attended a Bible Study on post with friends of many different denominations…Methodist, Lutheran, Episcopal, Presbyterian, and I even became friends with a few Catholics. There were banners hanging in the chapel that were changed every so often, and one day I finally asked someone why they were changed and what the different colors meant. I learned about the concept of the Liturgical Calendar, with Lent and Advent and Ordinary Time. The organization of the thing was fascinating and new, and added pieces to the puzzle of the connection between Christmas and Easter. 

For those of you unfamiliar with the Liturgical Calendar, it goes a like this: Advent is the beginning, the four weeks before Christmas. The “Christmas Season” is actually the 12 days from December 25 to January 6 which is Epiphany, traditionally the day the Wise Men arrived in Bethlehem to see the Christ Child. After this there is a small period of Ordinary Time, the lull between Christmas and Lent. Many cultures celebrate Carnivale, or Mardi Gras, right before the beginning of Lent, which is the 6 weeks leading up to Easter. Lent begins with Ash Wednesday. Then we have Passion Sunday, or Palm Sunday, which is the Sunday before Easter. (This is the point in the year in which all the Baptists go, wait, Easter is NEXT SUNDAY?) Then there is Passion Week, which includes Maundy Thursday (the night Jesus partook of the Last Supper), Good Friday, and then Easter Sunday. The Easter Season is the 6 weeks after this, ending with Pentecost. Then we are in Ordinary Time for the next several months. The banners in the chapel were purple for Advent and Lent, red for Passion week, white for Easter Sunday, purple for Easter Season (I think) and then green for Ordinary Time.

During our 7 years in Italy we celebrated many Easters at the chapel, including several Sunrise Services. The most blessed Easter season for me was the year I subbed as the sound tech.

This was also the year I had given up chocolate for Lent. The first week of that experiment was miserable…chocolate was EVERYWHERE and unavoidable. But the longer I went without it, the less I missed it, and I found myself walking down the candy aisle of the commissary thinking “If Jesus endured 6 hours on the cross and three days in the tomb, I can go 6 weeks without chocolate.” Somehow this first “giving up” made the Passion more real still, as it was something I was doing intentionally with a specific reminder that Jesus Died For Me. 

Each night of Holy Week I was at the chapel early in the evening, helping Father Mike set up for service and making sure everything was in working order. I was allowed to join in with the walking of the Stations of the Cross, something else I had never done before. Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, even Midnight Mass, I was there, celebrating the Passion of the Christ with my fellow believers. I remember the exhilaration of being able to eat a piece of chocolate cake at the fellowship after Midnight Mass. Lent was over, after all…it was Easter Sunday even if it was only 12:30 in the morning. A few hours later the pianist (who had also been there every evening) and I greeted each other with exhausted waves at the Sunrise Service. Christ the Lord is risen today. Haaaaa-le-lu-ia! 

It was a beautiful service, that Easter morning of 2010. It was my last truly wonderful Easter. 

Praise Is My Fight Song

I do not ever remember a time when music was NOT a part of my life. I sang as soon as I could talk, danced as soon as I could walk. Mom sat me on the piano bench as soon as I could sit up alone. (I have pictures to prove it.)

When I was old enough, I was in children’s choir at church. Elementary school meant ballet and tap lessons. Seventh grade brought new opportunities like handbells and BAND. OH MY GOODNESS BAND. Marching band in high school gave me more opportunity to do music with my whole self…and probably contributed to my inability to sit still when there is music playing.

When I started college I was a music major at a Baptist college. It was like living at band camp and also church camp that never ended. There was band and piano lessons and choir and voice lessons and Bible classes and church and music all the time. It was perfect, until carpal tunnel reared its ugly head and boom…that was the end of my career as a professional pianist.

Changing majors and changing universities did not mean that the music ended. There was still church choir. College choir. Teaching children’s choir and volunteering with the youth choir. Music was how I lived, how I dreamed, how I judged whether a movie was worthwhile (it was good but the soundtrack was AMAZING!). How I shared my faith. The best moments of my life have been tied to music. I have special songs from the day each of my children were born and special music that will always remind me of my wedding day.

I’ve written recently about the opportunity to sing Mozart’s Requiem in 2002. The recording of that performance is my favorite CD and I have listened to it many many times in the past few days. It is beautiful complex music, running the gamut from fast to slow, from high to low, trills and arpeggios that dissolve and resolve perfectly. It’s difficult to sing, probably the most complex piece I have ever performed. I listen to the Requiem over and over again because of the last three words: “Quia pius est” (Because You are Holy.) A full hour of perfectly arranged, painstakingly rehearsed, transcendentally performed, ethereal music, which exists because GOD IS HOLY. It still gives me chills.

Opportunities for music became one of the markers for how we chose a church…could I sing? Could I play? If the church was so small that there was no choir, I was the pianist. Or at least in the praise band.

I also had opportunities to write and arrange, but not enough courage to do it often. There are two hymn medleys on my piano, one for Easter and one for Christmas. There is a chorus called “You Can’t Turn Left in Clarksville” which is simply about traffic difficulties in Tennessee. My favorite of my own compositions is a silly little almost-country song called “When I Die I Wanna Go To Venice.” Music has been fun, silly, beautiful, holy, and exciting.

But recently I have come to see music, especially praise music, as a form of rebellion. I know. This is crazy talk. Praise music? Church music? Hymns? Rebelling? Against what? This makes no sense. I know. I would not have thought in those terms until about a year ago.

On March 29th, 2017, a bus crash took the lives of 13 senior adults in our church, including my son’s Sunday School teacher. I have written about that previously. Easter fell on April 16, just two weeks later. How. How could we do this? How could we sing “Up From The Grave He Arose” and “Christ The Lord is Risen Today” when we had just buried so many beloved friends? How could we do it? Because music, especially praise music, is powerful. We had been working on a song called “Unto The Lamb." And when the song begins “I can see Jesus, high and exalted,” pain takes a backseat for a while. “All of the angels cry HOLY, all of the saints cry HOLY…HOLY IS THE LAMB.” And I stood that morning in the front row of the choir loft (it’s where they put the short altos…) and with tears streaming down my face, I sang the chorus “All praise unto the Lamb, Who sits on the throne, Honor and power dominion and Praise, unto the Lamb, who was and is, And is to come!” My hands were curled into fists in defiance of the pain and anger and hurt that threatened to overcome that holy day. But when my voice wasn’t choked with tears, it was strong. And with the music as both a weapon and a healing balm, the church began to recover.

Until November 5th. When there was a mass shooting at a church about an hour away. All the hurt and pain of the bus accident returned in full force, knocking me off my feet again. I did not want to go to church the next Sunday. I was scared about going to church for the first time in my life. But we had a special day called Generational Worship planned, and both of my kids were going to be in the choir with me. I do not remember the songs we sang that day. What I do remember is standing there, holding my son’s hand, weeping again, and knowing that if there was a shooter in our midst that there was no better way to go than lifting up the name of the LORD. So I curled my hands into fists again and praised God, who gives strength and power and grace in so many ways. And again, slowly, we began to heal.

Until January 19th. Four long and short days ago. When we found out that a young man in our youth group had passed away. This sudden, tragic, senseless loss took the church’s collective breath away. Again we gathered as a church body to mourn and weep. And then again it was Sunday. The family had spoken with the music minister and said “We just want to worship.” Our opening song was “Rejoice, The LORD is King.” Rejoice. Give thanks. Sing. And triumph evermore. Lift up your voice.

Oh dear God in Heaven. How? How, again?

But music is powerful. And praise is a form of rebellion. Because it would be so easy, so much easier, to just curl up in a ball and drown in all the sorrow, pain, agony, loss, and despair. But God calls us to more. And He has given us the tools for more. So again, I stand in the front row of the choir loft, wringing my hands, fists clenched, tears streaming, at times unable to breathe. But I sing. REJOICE. LIFT UP YOUR VOICE. REJOICE. THE KEYS OF DEATH AND HELL ARE TO OUR JESUS GIVEN. I almost shout the words. We live in a fallen, sinful, pain-filled, wretched world. And it threatens to overcome the joy that God has given me, especially when the pain comes in so many waves so close together. But I stand and sing in defiance of the pain, rebelling against the wretchedness.

My friends say they love to watch me sing, that all my emotions show on my face, that I am brave to sing, especially on a day like today. I don’t know how brave I am. I cried a lot today. I do know that it is God who gives me any courage, strength or power that I possess. And that God gives me all of these through music. 

Praise is, indeed, my fight song.

More Thoughts on Anne…

Well, that didn’t take long. Today I watched the second and third episodes of the new series “Anne With An E.” Spoilers ahead…proceed with caution.

The Incident Of The Brooch is dealt with in a most unsatisfactory and overdramatic way…even for a story about the very dramatic Anne. In the book, Marilla has an amethyst brooch that goes missing. She is sure Anne must have stolen it, and demands that Anne confess or she cannot go to the Sunday School Picnic. Anne is innocent, but because she is Anne, and because she desperately wants to go to the picnic, she makes up a wild story about stealing the brooch and dropping it into the water. Marilla insists that since she has lost the heirloom brooch she is not allowed to go to the picnic and Anne is distraught. Fortunately, Matthew finds the brooch, Anne and Marilla make up, they all go to the picnic and Anne gets to have ice cream for the first time EVER.

This new show decided it had to up the ante, for some reason. Same brooch, still missing, Marilla still insists on a confession (which she gets). However, in the new show, Anne is to be sent back to the orphanage for her “crime.” She is taken to the train station and put on the train, all alone, before the brooch is found. Two days pass, involving Anne running into a possible child molester/abductor, hitching a ride from a milkman, and then performing poetry in a different train station to earn money for a ticket onward. Matthew finally catches up with her and brings her home. Marilla, who has been sick with worry, cannot bring herself to say a civil word to either Matthew or Anne.

(PS…NONE of that business was in the original book.)

The Cuthberts take Anne to the church picnic where everyone treats Anne coldly, talking poorly about “the orphan” and “those foolish Cuthberts.” Boys bark at Anne and refer to her as “dog girl”. Anne hears these things, of course, and can’t help but feel as though she is still unwanted.  (This is a departure from the book, too, I’m pretty sure. It’s definitely a departure from all the fun Anne had at the picnic in the original movie.)

In the end, the Cuthberts do adopt Anne, having her sign their family Bible, and having her change her name to “Anne Shirley Cuthbert.” (This is a departure from the book, too—which irks me as a literary purist.)

Episode 3 has plenty of its own faults. It’s Anne’s first day at school, and she is suuuuper excited. Anne gets to school and meets back up with Diana Barry (her BFF that we met in the 1st episode and saw briefly at the picnic). Diana shows her all around the school which is very “progressive” (ummm…ok…the story takes place in the 1870s what whatever, screenwriters…) and they find the teacher holding hands with Prissy Andrews, the oldest and prettiest girl in class. This is actually from the book. What happens next, however, is not. Anne goes on about how they must be having intimate relations and how they are going to make a baby. Diana listens, intrigued and horrified in equal measure. At lunch Diana takes Anne to her group or girlfriends with instructions to tell all…and Anne does. She tells them about the “pet mouse” that all men keep in their front pocket, and that when women pet it they end up with babies. Three minutes are wasted on this conversation, after which Anne is shunned by the other girls. The next day Prissy’s brother threatens to beat Anne up for slander. She is rescued by Gilbert Blythe but is then shunned further by the girls because one of them has had a crush on him for several years.

Meanwhile, Marilla is approached by the Progressive Mothers Sewing Circle. They talk about feminism and women’s education. The problem with this (aside from the ridiculous ploy to throw feminism into a story about such a strong girl) is that the education for boys and girls at the time was pretty equal…especially in small communities. The women also talk about suffrage…which is only obnoxious because it is presented 20 years ahead of its time. Marilla is shunned by the group the next day when Anne’s wild tales drift through the community.

Anne’s third day at school Gilbert pulls her braids and calls her carrots. (This, along with a few good lines, is straight from the book.) She smacks him in the face with her chalkboard and, despite Gilbert’s protests, is instructed to stand in front of the classroom in shame. However, she walks out of the schoolhouse and tells Marilla she is never going back to school.

And with that, I am finished with this series. No doubt Anne had more than her fair share of negative experiences in the many homes she was in before she came to Green Gables. But for all her nonsense, there was an innocence that kept Anne grounded. This new Anne is missing that innocence and that bothers me as to where this show thinks it is going with this beloved character.

I think the aspect that bothers me the most about this, though, is the way Anne, who is adopted, is treated by the community. I have a sister and many, many friends who have adopted children. It hurts my heart to think that these precious children will see this show, hear these comments, and think for one moment that they are “dogs” or “unwanted” or “burdens to be overcome.” Yes, this is a very personal thing for me and yes, perhaps I’m taking it too much to heart. But take it to heart I will. I can’t help it…I am Anne.

Anne…most definitely with an E

I was first introduced to Anne Shirley in 9th grade. We became fast friends. I talked like her, thought like her, dreamed like her, wanted to be an author like her, ended up being a teacher…probably because of her. Anne has probably influenced me more than any fictional character I’ve ever met. I loved the movies that came out on PBS and watched them countless times with my friends on sleepovers. I read all eight of the books, and the battered paperbacks still hold a proud place on my shelf. I took Anne to Italy and back and introduced her to my daughter! My husband watched the original movies with us, and after they were over he looked at me and said “Oh, I understand you so much better now.”

I. Am. Anne. Always talking. Always imagining. Always scribbling an idea that may or may not become a story later. (She may even be the reason why I only ever dye my hair red.)

So when I heard that a new show was coming out on Netflix, I groaned. I was predisposed to dislike the reconstruction because I was so enamored with the original. But that’s not entirely fair thinking, I argued back. So I decided to give it a go. I’ll watch (almost) anything for one episode. So while our son was away visiting Aunt Nella, my husband and I sat down with our daughter to watch the first episode of “Anne…With an E.”

It was delightful.

The first episode was full of many of the events I remembered from the original, and from the novel. In case you’re misfortunate enough to have never heard the story, here’s a summary:

Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert (siblings) have decided to adopt a boy to help them on their small farm on Prince Edward Island (in Canada). When Matthew goes to collect the boy, a chatterbox girl named Anne is there instead. Matthew and Marilla have to decide whether or not to keep her. Their next door neighbor, Rachel Lynde, comes over to visit Anne (who is 13 and has been in several homes over the course of her short life “earning her keep”). Rachel insults Anne, who loses her temper spectacularly. Matthew (who has a softer heart than Marilla) convinces Anne to apologize, and she does—again, spectacularly. Anne then meets a girl her own age, Diana, who will end up being her best friend. (It’s a lot to pack into one episode, but it was an hour and a half long.)

So what did I think?

Well, I loved what I have seen. Anne is delightful, fantastic, inspiring, hilarious, wonderful. Her story can’t help but be the same…as long as they stay close to the source material. The books are fantastic and tell a wonderful story about a stong-headed girl who just wants to be accepted as the wild and wonderful girl she is.

Downsides: Just a few. Anne has some bad memories where she is beaten and threatened. Very small kids might be frightened. Also, Anne has a few moments where she declares she’s “just as good as a boy” and she confronts the boy who has come to work on the Cuthbert’s farm. In these moments she is angrier than I remember in the books/old movie. 

On the whole, I’m looking forward to the rest of the episodes. I’ll let you know if my feelings change.

The Great and Terrible Week

Last Wednesday, I left the house in a rush. I leave for work at 9 instead of 11, because my job is wonderful and they have adjusted my schedule so that I can go to choir practice on Wednesday nights. Wednesdays are long, and I usually end up with no voice (talking on the phone for 8 hours + choir practice + allergies…it’s been fun) but they are my favorite day of the workweek. I had to make sure I grabbed everything I needed for work, plus everything I needed for choir, plus leave the house two hours earlier than normal. So a rush, but a rush that I’m used to because I’ve been doing this for several months. It was a gorgeous day, too, sunny and warm but not too hot, as it can be for a few short weeks in Spring in Texas.

Around 4:15 I had my second break and checked my phone for news/Facebook/calls/messages. Of course, one of those alerts was from the San Antonio news, about a church bus crash. All I could think was, “No no no no no, not us, not us, not us.” But I tapped on the story anyway, because whoever it was was gonna need a lot of prayer.

And it was us.

I called the church, and had a conversation that sounded like it had been had a hundred times. “Events are cancelled for this evening. Head-on collision. Five fatalities confirmed so far. Three airlifted. No one knows any names.” I hung up and called my husband to pass on the information. The love of my life has a “dumb phone” so if he’s not home he doesn’t see email. (He also doesn’t have Facebook, but I’m working on that.) Then it was time to share the word at work. I found one of my supervisors and told her what we knew so far. “Do you need to go?” she asked. “I only have an hour and a half left. I can focus for now.” But as soon as the clock hit 6:00, I was out the door.

By that time we knew it was 12 fatalities. Twelve precious senior adults. Gone.

I made it home, and then Day and I went up to church, a bag full of kleenex and water bottles in tow. Even though all the activities had been cancelled for the evening, the parking lot was full. More full than I had seen it on a Wednesday night ever. I think that was when I started to cry.

Camera crews were already outside. My head was full of conflicting thoughts: “Psh. Vultures. Wait, why are there so many? Is this story everywhere? How far did it go? What an opportunity to witness…” 

People were everywhere inside, milling around, talking, praying, many of them staring at phones hoping for updates. Silver industrial-size coffee pots filled one table, water and sweet tea on another. “Do we know anything? Any names? What happened?” But there were no answers. We did know the bus driver…my son’s Sunday School teacher. That news broke Day, which in turn broke me again.

It’s hard to describe the feeling in the sanctuary that night. Everyone leaning on everyone else. Everyone comforting everyone else. Kleenex boxes everywhere. So. Many. Tears. All of us, our church family, knocked off our feet but holding each other up. Everyone grieving together as we waited for the list of names. 

The words that I finally grasped, the two words that I have managed to hold tightest to through all of this, were “Great” and “Terrible.” We were all going through a terrible loss, a tragic senseless accident, where a dozen people had lost their lives “in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye.” It was a terrible, terrible night. But the power of God was with us, holding up every member of that congregation as we supported each other. The love of God surrounded us as we grieved. The peace of God, which indeed, is beyond all understanding, guarded our hearts. It was horrible to experience, but wonderful to behold.

The community began to share with us too, almost immediately. There are three churches basically right next door to each other, and pastors and members had come to grieve and pray with us. There was food, too…pizza and tacos (among other things) were donated by restaurants in the area. Our town is loving on us. Again, it is great and terrible.

For two more hours we prayed, talked, shared, hugged, leaned, and waited. Notifications had to be made, families told, before the church family could hear the list of names. By the time Pastor Brad was able to read the list, there were 13 dead. One survivor from our bus. The driver of the other truck survived as well. As our pastor called out the names, people in the congregation cried out. Small cries of heartache and pain that broke my heart all over again.

There was no rush to leave. Many of us stayed for almost another hour, weeping, sharing, leaning, talking, praying. It was 10:00 when I got home. It was hard to believe it had only been 6 hours since I heard the news. It felt much, much longer.

We had to go home and tell our son that he had lost his Sunday School teacher. I have never heard my boy weep like that, weep until we thought he would be sick. We shared our grief again as a family, the four of us curled up in a ball on the couch, weeping together. Liam stayed home from school the next day, visiting with counselors at church.

It’s been a bit of a blur, the days since the accident. I’ve had to go to work, but my employers have been very gracious and have given me things to do so that I didn’t have to talk on the phone the first day. Many times I can do my job, but then someone calls with a familiar name or from a church or someone asks me how I’m doing and I fall apart all over again. Everyone knows about the wreck; word is spreading that is was my church. A friend will say, “How are you doing?” and I will shrug and then someone else will ask “What happened?” I take a deep breath and say “It was my church, with the bus.” “Ooohhhh” is the response. And then a hug. And then I take a deep breath again. One breath at a time.

Sunday was again a Great and Terrible day. The Sonshine Singers (the senior choir) filled the choir loft. Well, almost filled. There were 14 empty chairs. I walked into the sanctuary and lost it all over again. But I have to say, it was one of the best church services I have ever taken part in, for while there was weeping, there was also hope. It is very true that weeping endures for the night. Or for several nights. But joy will indeed come in the morning.

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I will see these precious friends again in heaven. I know that someday I will sit next to Dorothy again as we sing. I know that we will hear Murray sing funny songs with kids. And while it hurts, and it does, it hurts so much we can hardly stand it at times, healing will come. We will laugh again. We will dance again. I will make it all the way through a song again. Why am I so sure? How can I say these things with such certainty? A song is the best answer.

The Solid Rock (Edward Mote)

My hope is built on nothing less

Than Jesus’ love and righteousness. 

I dare not trust the sweetest frame

But wholly lean on Jesus’ name.

When darkness seems to hide His face,

I rest on His unchanging grace;

In every high and stormy gale,

My anchor holds within the veil.

His oath, His covenant, His blood

Support me in the whelming flood;

When all around my soul gives way,

He then is all my hope and stay.

When He shall come with trumpet sound,

Oh, may I then in Him be found;

Dressed in His righteousness alone,

Faultless to stand before the throne.

On Christ the Solid Rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.

All other ground is sinking sand.

This. This is how we know. Because today is terrible, no one is denying that. 

But our God is great…and we cannot deny that either.