 “It’s just not working out,” my dear friend's voice was full of overwhelm and exhaustion from the other end of the phone. Breastfeeding her newborn had become a struggle. The baby wasn’t latching well. Does she switch to pumping? Is a bottle bad?
The sea of social media and doctoral advice had her rocked and I teared up in sympathy. I’ve been there, lived there underwater with my first born. It felt like I was drowning in a season that should have been marked by motherhood bliss. So I told her…
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 I love gardening. For the beauty of the flowers and the fruit and vegetables that burst from the ground to nourish my family, sure. But mainly because it teaches me to not rush toward hope.
For example, my tomato seeds weren’t growing “fast enough” for me. So, instead of waiting it out, I popped back over to Lowe’s and grabbed a few plants that were already a five or six inches tall and flowering. As I was sticking a Cherokee Purple tomato plant into a raised bed, I moved aside the tiny seedling I was giving up on and felt convicted. I wasn’t harming a thing by doing this in my garden, but was I doing this anywhere in my life? Why do we all want to rush through growing seasons ?  This season has been hard.
I wish I could tie a neat bow on it and say, “Everything is okay because Jesus is risen.” And that is true. Deeply, eternally true. But if I’m honest, it doesn’t always feel that way. Right now, it just feels hard. Between the questions and the wondering and the waiting, Easter didn’t feel very celebratory this year. It felt quiet. A little heavy. Like I was standing in the middle of a story I don’t fully understand yet. And I’ve been thinking about the women and the disciples—the ones who were actually there when the resurrection happened. We often picture Easter morning as triumphant and clear, but I wonder if it felt that way to them in real time. Because from their perspective, everything had just fallen apart. They had walked with Jesus, believed in Him, trusted that He was the One who would fulfill every promise. And then, He died. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically, painfully, publicly—He died. Can you imagine…  My mom always had these big, Kirkland’s-looking curtains in our living room—the kind with soft embroidery and tassels, hanging perfectly in the windows like they belonged in a magazine.
That’s what I used to picture every time I read about the curtain tearing when Jesus died on the cross. But here’s the reality: ”At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split (Matthew 27:51, NIV).” The curtain in Gospel of Matthew 27:51 wasn’t decorative… and it definitely wasn’t light. It was massive—about 60 feet high, 30 feet wide, and four inches thick. It wasn’t something you could casually pull back. It was more like a wall—heavy, intentional, immovable. A barrier designed to guard something sacred… |
