Good morning,
We are back in Charlotte just in time for most of the children to be on spring break. It is very merciful timing for them — not so much for me, as I started a new part-time job this week! But we are still the happy recipients of generous meals and a steady stream of flowers and gifts. Thank you again so much for your kindnesses.
The Part Where There’s an Essay
Here’s the eulogy I shared at my mother’s funeral last Thursday morning.
When I was a month shy of my forty-second birthday, I made the ridiculously stereotypical decision to get a tattoo. It was a very small one, just between my shoulder blades. The great thing about being nearly forty-two is you don’t care what’s ridiculous anymore.
About a month later, mom and dad came to Charlotte to celebrate our oldest son Cameron’s high school graduation party. It would prove to be mom’s last visit to our home.
Because I have never entirely given up caring what my mom thinks, I wondered what she would think of my new artwork. I anticipated that she would disapprove, but she surprised me by asking about it. She wanted to get one, too, she said. When she beat the cancer, she said, she wanted to get a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. I nodded my approval.
I tend to agree with late comedian Norm MacDonald’s assessment that if you die, then the cancer dies, and it’s at least a draw. Even so, we have this parlance in our culture, that mom “didn’t beat the cancer,” and she didn’t make a visit to a tattoo parlor.
I inherited a lot of things from my mom. She loved growing things and animals; she loved a house full of people; she loved loud music. Because of her, I feel equally at home in a dairy barn and an art gallery. She’s the reason that my tables have to have some kind of centerpiece. She also loved Easter Sunday.
Growing up, Tracy and I knew Easter as a day on which we rose at four am. Holden Chapel had a sunrise service every year in the parking lot (no matter the temperature or presence of snow), followed by a breakfast inside -- a breakfast that mom was responsible to host. And in spite of the fact that electric timers existed and were fairly perfect as a technology at the time, we had to go over to the church and make sure that the coffee pots were on in time to brew the coffee for the service-goers.
So after having opened our Easter baskets, which were faithfully delivered by our father yelling HOP HOP THE EASTER GUINEA PIG WAS HERE (an inside family joke, no time to explain), we loaded into the Dodge Caravan labeled with “Flowers by Ann” -- or later on after mom's own forty-two-year-old type decision, the Ford Probe -- and took off through the darkness to make the twenty-minute trek to Holden. And what song did we listen to on the way, quite loudly, without fail? Sandi Patty’s “Was It a Morning Like This?”
If you remember the era of nineties CCM, you might remember it. Sandi recounts the encounter of the first disciples with the risen Christ:
Was it a morning like this
When Mary walked down from Jerusalem?
And two angels stood at the tomb
Bearers of news she would hear soon
Did the grass sing?
Did the earth rejoice to feel You again?
From the time we awoke to the moment we heard the coffee pots gurgling, to perfecting the tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils that Mom painstakingly arranged every Easter Saturday, to the ridiculous Easter egg hunts that took place in the afternoon, Easter was it. It was time to rejoice; it was time to consider the Resurrection.
And so we are here to honor mom’s memory today, in a church, home of spiritual conversations and lofty thoughts. And I’m grateful for that. But butterflies and cancer and tattoos and tulips and daffodils live in the earthy, tangible world of bodies -- bodies that get tired and sick and worn out, just like Mom’s did.
But Easter Sunday causes us to remember that one physical body came back from the grave, and the apostle Paul tells us that “in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.”
So it is my understanding that instead of putting on a tattoo, mom has instead put on the imperishable. That’s a pretty good trade. Paul goes on in I Corinthians 15:
For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:
“Death is swallowed up in victory.”
“O death, where is your victory?
O death, where is your sting?”
CS Lewis tells us
Nothing could be more unhistorical than to pick out selected sayings of Christ from the gospels and to regard those as the datum and the rest of the New Testament as a construction upon it. The first fact in the history of Christendom is a number of people who say they have seen the Resurrection.
And so, if you happen to be in Charlotte on Easter Sunday, this is why you will find my house and my yard jammed with people. It is the highest of holy days on my calendar, the biggest of parties, worthy of a flat-out, losing sleep, up-at-four-am kind of effort. Because a physical body went into the tomb, and it came back out again. Like a butterfly, but much better.
Mom taught me this by example, so now I serenade my children with the same songs every year (though I have widened the catalog a bit). I invite too many people over and my husband wonders if they will all get fed. But no Christian ought to be alone on Resurrection Day --the day when we raise a glass and “eat, drink, and be merry, for yesterday we were dead.”
I echo for mom, the words of Jesus to Thomas: “Blessed are those who [like her] have not seen, and yet believe.”
For the Anglophiles
One of our favorite survival stories is that of the crew of the Endurance, Ernest Shackleton's Antarctic exploring ship, lost 107 years ago. This week, marine archaeologists found the ship at the bottom of the ocean. It is in remarkable condition.
Reads & Listens of the Week
A few years ago, I wrote an essay that got some traction in my slice of the internet, called “Feasting: an Act of War.” Since then, people have often brought my attention to this idea playing out in real time. Here’s one instance from last week: World Central Kitchen.
I always enjoy David French’s Sunday columns, but this past week’s was extra good: On the Enduring Power of Malevolent Leaders. “Throughout history we see familiar patterns, in times of stress and confusion, people cry out for salvation and strength. Success—including military success—builds a bond with the people. The victorious ruler connects not just with human pride, but also with profound human longings for protection, purpose, and identity. This is an ancient need.”
Around here, Wednesday is known as “good podcast day.” If you’re in need of some lighter entertainment for your ears, why not try out one of our Wednesday favorites? We like Nateland (with comedian Nate Bargatze and his buddies) and Office Ladies (for the most dedicated fans of the show The Office).
Closer to Home
If you're in the midst of preparing for the season around Easter, here's a list of resources I've put together for families.
Unity is not the result of sameness. Rather, unity results when love intersects with difference.
Paul David Tripp, What Did You Expect?