A Responsorial Psalm for the Resurrection, An angel's words to Mary Magdalene

Before light dances on the dew, she has gathered her spices and fragrant oils for the journey.

Wrapping her arms around the jars, she steps carefully to avoid wayward roots in the dark.

To see him once more keeps tears from spilling out of eyes that have seen so much of life.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Stopping abruptly, she has no answer nor can comprehend the one sitting in the burial place.

The cold hewn stones will offer no warmth; a faint scent of myrrh is almost a memory.

Brokenness hangs heavy in this room, offering only unspoken promises and unseen hope.

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

It is to your credit you have wanted to fulfill your duty by anointing the body of your friend.

Here you will find only strips of linen, grave clothes without purpose that have come undone.

Your friend is not here, yet you are not abandoned. He has risen from the dead, his divine plan!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

This tomb holds nothing for you; it will neither sprout vegetables nor flowers for a window sill.

Take one last look at the rock, unchanged by natural rhythms of life. Let go of the burial spices.

The stone has been rolled away. The freshness of new life rushes in. Love overcomes all!

ALL:  Why do you seek the living among the dead?

Turn and walk into the garden where birds sing their early morning songs to welcome the day.

Buds burst forth in a flourish of color and the air is made sweet with their perfume.

There waits the Gardener. He knows your name. He has tended your heart from the beginning.

Go out into the garden and celebrate life! Amen.

a little bit of chocolate

Every year I try to come up with something new, something challenging to give up for Lent.

After I eliminate the idea of giving up coffee and Guinness, my coping mechanisms extraordinaire, I move on toward carbs and realize I have already greatly reduced them for health reasons. The main thing left is sugar.

I tell people that I give up chocolate, but sometimes I would pass up the chocolate pie and choose the lemon instead. Not this year. I gave up all "intentional" sugar. I say intentional because there is sugar in pretty much everything except for my coffee. And I will come clean and admit to a little maple syrup on pancakes at least once, some barbecue sauce that obviously contains high fructose corn syrup and finally, some apples and raisins cooked in sugar and butter because I could not bear to let them go to waste. I do what I can.

The funny e-cards circulating with the message: "I believe I'm getting closer to God by spending a few weeks not eating M&M's" miss the point, though they did make me remember my favorite catechism teacher, a man who was about to enter the priesthood when one day he fell in love with a woman who so captured his heart he ended up marrying her. Instead of entering the house of God, he would come home to a household full of children.

This catechism teacher would give up M&M's for Lent because he loved chocolate and those were among his favorites. Maybe because he had been taught to deny himself in a strict sense of the word, he would take the challenge one step further and place candy bowls of M&M's throughout his home, allowing himself to be reminded of the temptation each time he passed one of the bowls of brightly colored candies, there for the taking. He would then pause and thank Jesus for sacrificing himself.

I like to get rid of the temptation before Ash Wednesday if I can, but sometimes Valentine's Day, characterized by gifts of chocolate, can mess up my plans. In the back of the freezer are my stashed chocolates, if they are still there, with my sons, who did not give up chocolate, always on the lookout for something sweet since Mama is not making dessert during Lent. I also keep a large bag of chocolate chips in the freezer because they taste so much better frozen and whenever I need a little pick-me-up I can just reach into the bag for a handful of wonderfulness. During Lent I try not to open the freezer, which is difficult since that is where we keep the coffee beans, even though my husband makes the coffee most of the time; the frozen fruit with which I make my smoothies, without added sugar; and flour for baking. And yes, I did put the recommended tablespoons of sugar into the scones I made the other day, breaking both the sugar and carbs rule.

It is not about the food. The Scriptures even talk about what is considered clean and unclean, as dietary laws tend to be strict. But there is freedom in following the way, the truth, and the life. When we humble ourselves and make our pact with God for the forty plus days we are trying to give something up, he meets us where we are and strengthens our resolve. He knows me better than I know myself. I know that he knows that when I say I'm going to do something, that means I will try. He knows that most of the time I will fail. And at those times I will look up to heaven and be still and know that it is ok.

A popular idea is to do something during Lent instead of give something up, like chocolate. All good-natured teasing aside, giving up chocolate is not as easy as it may seem, especially for someone as in love with it as I am. My heart longs to do something for Lent, like provide funding for so many charitable pursuits, while my overdue bills, stacked neatly in a pile, await the next payday. I already give of myself to the youngest among us at my workplace, volunteer in several capacities at my church, and try to make the world a better place by apologizing for my wrongdoings, reaching toward mercy in the midst of judgment, and hope in the midst of despair. I seek to post pictures and quotes that will help those reading to experience a moment of peace, joy, or sense of knowing that I too have walked a rather rugged path and willingly place myself beside those who suffer and mourn.

Giving up a little bit of chocolate for about a month and a half does not get me closer to God. Seeking him everyday . . . does.

the right words

Words are everything to me and at 5 o'clock this morning I realized: I may have used the wrong ones.

This may explain the unrest and uneasiness following a recent conflict in which I became embroiled. Until I have communicated, I will keep trying--editing the conversation in my head, searching for the right words and the correct order in which to arrange them. It does not matter how poetic one is if the message shared falls among the rocks instead of penetrating the heart of the listener.

I wondered if the conversation could have been different if I had said "unteachable" instead of "will not take direction." Unteachable implies a state of not being able to be taught, perhaps by anyone, while not taking direction could be a failure on my part to give clear expectations.

If I had said "uncooperative" instead of "unwilling to communicate," a similar scenario is formed. An uncooperative person chooses not to get along with anyone whereas someone unwilling to communicate may not feel safe sharing her thoughts and ideas with me.

Or maybe the whole thing was doomed to failure from the beginning. For what purpose? I may never know.

Failure can be a heavy burden until I find the appropriate wire cutters to release myself from the ball and chain of regret that wants now to be my best friend. I cannot be too hasty since it is in moments of deepest pain that character is forged. I need to allow myself to feel deeply the angst, the anger--even if it is provoked--before giving it all a heave-ho into the abyss of forgetfulness. I will never forget certain affronts. I can only hope to forget how much they hurt.

Forgiveness comes to me from a source greater than me, producing in my heart something I cannot create on my own. I call him God. He knows my heart better than I know it myself and he has spent a great deal of my development healing it so he knows every wound. He forgives me. I then work at forgiving myself, which for me is far more difficult than forgiving someone else.

Conflict can be filled with irony. The action I may desire to take on another, causing her to fall apart emotionally, may be the exact thing she has already done to me. During the heat of the battle the tactics one uses can speak volumes. Emotional expression can be genuine or manipulative. Lack of emotional expression can indicate a hardness of heart or just plain weariness. Judgements are made in split-second intervals and before anyone can breathe, what has been said has been said. It cannot be taken back. Ever.

Apologizing is not the same as forgiving. I am often confused by an apology--especially the quick ones. Are you sorry for what you have done to hurt me or are you sorry it happened and you got caught?

The first words out of my mouth when I was in a car accident were "I'm sorry" which I would regret as the guy who totaled my mini-van fought back insisting that we were both at fault. What I had said became an admission of guilt. I was sorry it happened--that a guy had not taken the time to look in my direction even though I had the right of way. I am often sorry when someone chooses to do something to hurt me even though it is not deserved. I do not enjoy the conflict or the fallout afterward, as it forces me to expend my time and energy sweeping up the broken pieces of my heart and praying they can be put together. Again.

But if there is anything at all I have learned from conflict it is this: It will happen again. I will not harden my heart thinking I will protect myself next time. It will hurt. Lessons learned from old mistakes will fall by the wayside as new mistakes are made. We are human. We do the best we can and then we move on.

We can become teachable.

We can learn to cooperate.

my choice

"It's your choice."

The words clanged against the cold tile floor like a tin cup falling from unsuspecting hands.

My choice. Mine.

It has been difficult for me to make choices since I was a young child standing in the dime store with Mama who would be getting impatient as I wanted to maximize what little money I had been given. She would always give me the option of saving the money and going home which I would ignore as I weighed the pros and cons of each possible selection.

Once the purchase was made I would hesitate to eat it if it was candy, or play with it if it was a toy. I did not want the experience to end. I wanted to hold onto the choice as if it held more for me than the use for which it was intended. Subconsciously I must have been aware of how little control I had.

As I was growing up, my mother would often choose my clothes. She could only buy what was on sale. She managed a farm household according to the weather. If a hail storm hit the day before the cherries were shaken from the trees, that meant we would wear last year's coats and boots. If there was no hail storm, we could go shopping for coats at a mall forty miles away, stopping by our favorite shoe store along the way. I say our favorite because we were a family with long, flat feet and could not find shoes to fit us at most stores. As children we needed special inlays to compensate. The orthopedic shoes recommended were not in any way fashionable. They were never my choice.

We ate what we grew and raised on the farm. I did not know how expensive food was until I left college and was out on my own. I spent years as a vegetarian in part because I could not afford to buy meat. We never had to wonder if Mama would choose beef, chicken or pork for dinner. It would be beef, as that is what was mooing out in the barn. A large vegetable garden made up the rest of the meals. Our other crops: asparagus and cherries, were abundant in season. We drank milk that came from the dairy where our milk was sent to be pasteurized. We received Florida oranges and grapefruit in the winter from a truck driver who used the fruit to pay Daddy for plowing his driveway. Bartering with other farmers procured for us other fruit and vegetables we did not grow, and even a Christmas tree every year from a nearby tree farm.

The choice for higher education was a simple one. Though I was accepted by two other colleges, Michigan State University was the only place I ever wanted to go. Of course, I did not anticipate how difficult it would be to grow up six miles from a town of 2,000, and suddenly find myself sitting in the bay window of a dorm on a campus with a student body of 44,000. Years later I would wonder if it would have been wisdom to be a big fish in a small pond instead of a struggling student who always had to work and never slept. A farm girl, who often wanted to go sit in the woods somewhere or go to the Lake to sit in the bluffs by herself.

I would choose to study journalism because I figured if I majored in English the expectation would be for me to become a teacher. If I had wanted to become a teacher, I would have majored in education. I chose to go to Denver the day after I finished my studies because I did not want to go home. That choice had life-changing ramifications. I wanted out of the real world in just two years. The only school I could find that would give me a graduate assistantship was in West Virginia. I would choose to go there. I would then make all kinds of choices that would get me into interesting situations.

Choosing between a job offered to me at a newspaper in the mountains of Colorado or pursuing a relationship that could lead to marriage was one of the most difficult choices I have ever made. Would I ever work for a newspaper if I got married? Would I ever get married if I chose to work for that newspaper? I wanted both so much.

I chose motherhood long before we brought home our first child. The desire came over me in a surprising way since right before then I never really cared. I did not want to give up everything in order to care for a baby. And yet, time and again, I would choose what I thought was best for the child even if it meant staying home and then working part-time jobs I would have never chosen.

If it were up to me, I probably would not have chosen to have a fair complexion and red hair. Too much sunburn; too many nicknames (carrot-top, fire-head, rooster, red, ginger, freckle-face). I would not have chosen to be so near-sighted I can barely walk across the room without my glasses that I have worn since age 12, inheriting my vision from Daddy who has worn his glasses since age 4. I would not have chosen to have teeth like chalk that have all been filled, one crowned, and several root canals, inheriting teeth from Mama whose teeth are as bad off as mine. And I would never have chosen a chronic disease, hypothyroidism, inherited from both of my parents, which has been the bane of my existence over the past decade or so.

I would have chosen to be blonde and popular with my in-style clothing and flat tummy. I would have been able to be out in the sun at the beach tanning and with no glasses to worry about would dive into the water without a care and . . . a giant sea monster would swallow me whole! There is no perfect life! It is an illusion to think so. We cannot choose whatever we want. We are not in charge.

I gave up my so-called right to be in charge of my choices when I chose to follow a Supreme Being. Thank goodness! I recognize only too well that I do not always make good choices. I cannot predict the outcome of any of them. I am shortsighted every single time. I want to choose wisely so I choose to go to the One who has wisdom. I want to accept what I did not choose and turn to the One who has accepted me without qualification, loving me exactly as I have turned out to be.

It's my choice? No. It is the path I am following. A path on which I cannot see much beyond the next turn. I have no idea where it leads. I do not know what condition I will be in when I get there. I do not know where "there" is. I choose to trust that I am being guided. I choose to let the words that sounded like clanging become the background music for my next journey. That is my choice.

twinkle twinkle little star

Nothing ever prepares me for the breathtaking beauty of a sky right before dawn.

Even as the January wind causes me to pull my robe more tightly as I wait for my dog, I love to look at the stars. It is not because I know their scientific names or correct placement in the sky at different times of the year--I do not, but because they are always there. They steadfastly shine and decorate the sky with their beauty.

We can feel closer to each other knowing we are looking up at the sky at the same stars. Our gaze can connect over miles as we enjoy the beauty together.

Stars are God's nightlight when one leaves the comfort of the tent in the middle of the night in need of a tree. When camping in places without much light, stars shine all the more brilliantly.

As a child I would love to be the one who saw the first star come out, even before it was completely dark, so I could recite, "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight." Wishing on a star was as problematic as making a wish when it was time to blow out my birthday candles. Do I wish for something just for me? Or should I have the needs of others in mind? I knew I would not be able to enjoy something without sharing it so I was always trying to imagine how my wishes could benefit those around me, even though I did not truly know what others would wish for. More money? Newer stuff? More? All I ever wanted was to be happy and feel loved. Whatever that meant.

As I grew up, I was told happiness should not be pursued; joy is the gift from God we are seeking. Recently I was told it was just the opposite with happiness being the constant and joy the fleeting intense emotion. Then I read that joy and happiness are interchangeable. Even their definitions are similar. Joy is a feeling of great happiness. Happiness is the state of being happy. Happy is to feel pleasure. They all sound like a good day to me.

Perhaps where things went wrong is that pleasure is associated with sin by well-meaning Christian people who would rather err on the side of having no fun at all than to ever be accused of enjoying something too much, thus averting their eyes from their duty in life . . . which as far as I can tell has something to do with giving God glory. And how are we to do that without feelings of happiness?

I like to think of God as a joyful Creator quietly watching us, His creations, with the kind of joy a parent feels for his or her child. Of course that puts us at the toddler level as His ways are so much above ours. We are constantly at the learning stage, finding new ways to hold our sippy cups and climb onto small, padded structures without toppling over and landing on our noggins.

We are selfish but do not mind sharing if we can be convinced there are enough goldfish crackers for all of us. We love to explore nature, quickly discovering that sand does not taste as good as it looks. We get angry when someone takes our toys away and may even use our newly formed teeth as weapons. Our understanding is limited. We feel better when we take a nap.

No matter how fierce we may think we are as we raise our chubby fists to protest something we do not even understand, thinking momentarily we are in charge, at the end of the day we can rest in the arms of the One who loves us more than all of the stars in the sky.

unexpected

Having expectations is a normal part of life. It is impossible not to look forward to something happening, unless one is deeply depressed. Nevertheless, expectations can hurt.

I have stopped expecting people to know my name. Even at a recent meeting at my church, I was greeted with, "Hello, Mary Beth." To my credit, I stopped and immediately corrected the person, something I have been loathe to do in the past. But when I am mistaken for someone else's wife and told my pottery is lovely, I begin to wonder if it is because I am in line right behind the man in question, or if I truly blend into the fabric of life in such a way as to morph into whomever anyone needs me to be at the moment. Do I even exist? Maybe I'm a figment of my own imagination. Or an apparition of someone's long lost relative floating around looking for something to do.

When it is my turn to speak, I face a crowd who looks at me as though we have never met. I am at a loss for what to say. Those who kidded around with me several years ago are not present or life has changed them to the point in which making a joke is too much of an effort. I wonder why more people who know me are not in attendance. I hope for the best in the midst of a sinking feeling.

When the vote comes back, my name is at the bottom of the list.

It suddenly feels like being picked last for a sports team in elementary school--pick a sport, any sport. I remember standing on the playground, head bowed, fingers crossed, voice in my head quietly chanting, "Pick me, pick me" and by some miracle I would often be chosen before the fat kid who cannot run or some kid the group decides they dislike more that day than they dislike me.

This is no big deal, I tell myself. I served on three boards; now I serve on one. I did what I was called to do. I just didn't get asked back for a second term. It really is ok.

Why does it always feel like this?

I have friends who will tell me when God closes a door, He opens a window, or something to that effect. I do not need to be distracted with the endless analogies I can think up. It is what it is. I am no longer the rejected red-haired girl who is probably crying by now, on the playground wishing she had friends. I have friends who love me, an identity given to me by God, and my name is Mary Ellen. I have nothing to prove to those who do not care to know me. I have nothing to prove to those who do.

Through the open window I will breathe in the fresh air of a new day.

all we have left to do

Death and dying seem to constitute most of the prayer requests I hear these days, causing me to wonder exactly what it is I am supposed to pray for, or for whom.

I remember an 86-year-old woman I was interviewing, in my brief life as a features reporter for a small newspaper, who said something to the effect of, "If we believe what we've been taught, shouldn't we, in the end, welcome death?" After living as a widow for decades and burying all of her friends, she told me she was ready for her life to be over. It was not until I attended her memorial service and heard the many stories of how this woman of faith had used her home to reach out to an inner city neighborhood in Denver that I knew she was indeed ready. She died peacefully in her sleep a few days after I spoke with her, just like she had hoped she would.

Suicide is different. No one wants to talk about it. And if they do, it is in hushed tones with a lot of self-imposed guilt thrown in, as if that helps.

My mind somehow always wanders back to the movie, Crimes of the Heart that came out in 1986 featuring Diane Keaton, Jessica Lange, and Sissy Spacek as three sisters who try to come to terms with their mother's demise. As one of the sisters considers doing herself in, following her mother's lead, she realizes it is not that life is so terrible or everything so wrong. It is because she had a really bad day. This, they come to understand, is the reason for killing oneself. In the darkness of the humor, the light of truth shines forth.

The scenario I heard about recently had a mother home with young children setting her house on fire. Her husband, an older child, and one of the two children who survived the fire remain. Questions abound. Friends and family are devastated. Who is to blame? Where was God?

I asked myself these questions when my aunt was found face down on her kitchen floor with a note she had written to one of her young children saying if he found mommy in the car to call grandma. The drugs and alcohol in her system had stopped her in her path; she never made it to the car.

This horrible event happened the day after I graduated from college--a day I spent on the beach gathering my thoughts in preparation for having lunch with my aunt the next day. Instead, the next day I would be put in charge of her 5-year-old adopted daughter who would share my meals and sleep in my bed with me. I had no idea what to do with a 5-year-old. She kept asking me when mommy was going to wake up. E. T.--the Extra-Terrestrial movie had come out a year earlier with its messianic twist on death. "But ET woke up!" she insisted as I tried not to let her see me crying.

In my dream, a few weeks after the funeral, it was as though I were back at the funeral home, leading a small child up to the casket to say good-bye to her mother. I do not think the children were taken there, but remember the dream better than I remember what really happened. In the dream my aunt sits up in the casket which would normally be more like a horror movie but in this case it was beautiful. The caked on make-up two shades too dark to disguise her broken nose peeled away, revealing her fair complexion. She got out of the casket wearing an emerald green cape that was incredibly dazzling as she twirled around. I looked at her and simply asked why. She said she just could not do it anymore. Life was too hard, but she was ok now and I need not worry about her. I slept soundly for the first time since the tragedy and when I woke up, I was at peace.

Like those close to people who end their lives, I felt somewhat responsible. I knew my aunt was not doing well. She had been diagnosed with mental illness and had spent time in psych wards. Her behavior seemed odd when we had gone out to lunch after my graduation. It was unusual that she was even with my family at all--begging to be included, I would be told later. She had renewed her faith as a Christian, wanting to leave her Catholic past behind. Having done the same thing, I wanted to share with her my story so we could support each other. Maybe it would be enough.

In retrospect, it helped me to know that the last bit of unfinished business she had wanted to accomplish on this earth was attending my graduation and celebrating my success. But we never had a chance to have that lunch which meant I would never get to try to encourage her to keep going. Though it was not up to me, I wondered for awhile if I could have done something more.

I think about my government/economics high school teacher who went down to his basement and put a gun to his head while his wife was vacuuming the living room upstairs. He had been a teacher so long at the high school my dad may have had him. He was well-respected as a teacher for generations in our small hometown. But on that day, he would end it. When his widow wanted to recognize his teaching excellence and maybe even offer a scholarship in his name, her proposal was rejected. He was no longer a good role model for children. He would instead be forgotten.

When my brother-in-law's body was found in his apartment, the autopsy revealed he had a lethal dose of his many prescribed medications in his system. There was no note saying good-bye, but lots of evidence to prove that he was not abiding by the restrictions against alcohol in his group home. He may have known he would soon be homeless. We had walked with him through treatment programs, group homes, psych wards, and even an intervention in which he said he had always been a happy-go-lucky sort of guy with no problems. What does one say to that?!

I do not believe people really want to die. I believe they really, really want to LIVE. They want to live so badly that when they are met with disappointment and heartbreak everywhere they look, it simply becomes too much for them. I also believe that if someone can just make it through a disaster of a day and through a lonely night, God's mercies are made new in the morning. If only . . . .

I know someone who is wondering if she should have said more or done more. Maybe she had a gut feeling that her friend was not ok. She respected her friend's privacy and in turn had to attend her funeral. She can blame herself, but it will be for nothing. I do not know what is in another's heart; I can barely figure out what is in my own. When she is ready to hear it I will tell her that after all is said and done, all we have left to do is to love.

Love when new life is found and love when despair seems the victor. Love the person for who he or she is or was. Love with questions that may never be answered. Love those grieving the loss. Love those celebrating life. Love.