Resurrection Sunday. Indeed.

4364 days

That's how long I've been waiting for this day.

Correction:  4364 days and nine months.

Ever since that thin blue line on a purple stick.

Ever since the first flutters in the womb.

Ever since I looked into those precious blue-green eyes of my 9+ pound baby boy.

My son.

Now.

My brother.

Chopping vegetables to go with our dinner, his face never looking up from his work, he says,

"Mom, I want to talk about baptism."

My heart skips a beat and my breath comes to a halt.

I've heard those words before, and we've talked and questioned with young innocent eyes, learning and growing in knowledge.

But this time, this statement, coming from a no-longer-a-boy individual nearly as tall as I.

And I know.  He's serious.

We chat briefly, over boiling water and simmering chicken.

Later, curled up on my bed, this man-child and I, we talk.

"Why now, son?"

"Do you understand this significance?"

"You cannot walk this walk alone. It is all about His grace."

And he answers, with maturity.  And conviction. And determination.

He loves his Lord. He's ready to surrender.

I fight my tears as we talk about this decision.  It's purpose.  It's meaning.

And what it will mean for the rest of his life.

"It is the single-biggest decision you will ever make, son.  Bigger than where you go to college, what career path you choose.  Greater than who you decide to marry."

And his eyes open wide at that one.

Still.  He's determined.

"When, son?"

Easter Sunday.

At that, the dam of tears broke.

He was due to be born on Easter Sunday.  (Too comfortable in the womb, he arrived 4 days later).

Easter has always been his favorite holiday, for all the right reasons.

Not for the bunny or the eggs or the chocolate.

But because he's always known that day was special.

"Mom, I know a lot of people will be there that day.  And maybe I could be an example for people that day."

In his own baptism, he is wanting to minister to others.

My child.  An evangelist.

Already.

After a week of prayer
And study
And discussions
And tears...

Today, among a throng of friends, family, brothers and sisters, I watched my son be lowered into water, die to himself, and be raised now as

My brother.

My co-heir.

It was the single greatest moment of his life.

And mine.

I see him with new eyes now.  I still have the privilege to instruct, lead, and discipline this young man.  But now, somehow, it is different.  I now have accountability living in my house with me once more.

This young man, filled with the ever-growing Spirit of the Almighty God living in him, walking this journey with me.

This journey that is now his own.

With his Savior.

Praise Jehovah.
What a glorious Resurrection Sunday.
Indeed.

I Can't Talk About Jesus

4 seconds.

That's about how long it takes.

That, or about 5 words.

Before the dry mouth, cracking voice, lip quivering effect kicks in.

It's challenging, being a teacher & talker, trying to share testimony when this is the result.
Every.Single.Time.

I can teach classes, join discussions, (sometimes) lead prayers. 

But you ask me about my Savior
And all of that
Changes.

What is it about this man?
That captivates me so deeply to my core that every cell in my body becomes seemingly unable to function when I'm called to share my story...
My Love Story...

There are certain friends about whom I cannot speak without tears.  And there are reasons.  Deep, powerful, life-altering reasons.  These friends, men and women, from different walks of life and pages in my story, stepped up in outstanding and unexpected ways thus etching themselves permanently into the fibers of my heart.  No matter fluctuating circumstances or spanning time, these souls are intertwined with mine for eternity.  You know those friends.  You have them too.

Along those lines yet much, much deeper, is this Man.
Whose eyes, which I've never seen, penetrate into my soul, seeing me for me and loving me just the same.
Whose smile is what I long to see when at last I am with Him.
Whose hands and arms cradled children, wiped grime from blind eyes, sketched in dirt, summoned sinners from trees, broke bread with the outcast, cleansed the road from the feet of his students...
Willingly outstretched, allowing iron to crush him into a tree.
This man who went, willingly, to the stake.
This man who loved the broken.
This man who worshiped the Father.
This man who prayed forgiveness, mercy, on those 
Who had called for his execution
Who had turned their backs
Their eyes
Their hearts

As he died.

For them.
For me.

This man is the same One
Who caught me when I fell.
Held each tear as they fell like rain and at intervals still fall.
Sat with me through the darkest of nights, the gravest of pain, praying for me when I lacked words or strength for utterance.

Whether it is a song on a worship-ful Sunday morning, echoing in my mind, reminding me of the utter amazement of His attention.
Or the flutter of the wind in the grasses as the birds greet me by dawn on the sacred porch I call home.
Or the brother, sitting at the communion table, asking about my free flowing tears as the congregation around me sings "...near to the heart of God..."

It is emotion I cannot contain.
Let the tears flow...

My Heart Writes Again

Time transpires.  Holidays advance.  We burn candles and sing and celebrate Holy Life.  We share gifts and hugs and snuggles and warmth.
We eat and sleep and explore and learn.

And still.  My heart writes.

We begin anew and recommit to greatness.  We dream big dreams and dare to be bold and say we can.  We encourage another and fight the temptation to compare and compete.
We laugh and love.  We look back and prepare ahead.

And still.  My heart writes.

We fight the wearies and we retreat.  We plug our ears to the noise around us.  Sounds which ring familiar and therefore, unhelpful.  We drone back into the day in and day out.  Our dreams slightly fade.  We work and we rest.  We sip chocolate by inviting fires.  We read and we wait.  We watch and we wait.  We listen. And we wait.

And still.  My heart writes.

We get up and we start again.  We hope through challenges.  We struggle.  Yet we remain.  We trust and we pray and we study and we pray and we give attention.  And we pray. And we wait.
We cook and we clean and we drive and we talk and we listen and we build and we sell and we buy and we do. And do.  And do.  And do.

And still.  My heart writes.

Through the heartache.  Through your tears.  Through my own.  Through impatience.  And discontent.  Through sorrows.  And laughter.  Through frustration.  And gratitude.

Still.  My heart writes.

Through the cold and then the spring.  Winter vastness and warming freshness.
Pondering.  Wondering.  Waiting.  Wandering.
Thanking.  Forgetting.  And thanking again.
Celebrating.  Mourning.  Learning.  Growing.
Resting.  Rising. Hot manna sipping.

Still.

My heart.

Writes.

Again.