Watchful, Expectant, Brimming

Along the horizon, while the sun softly lowers the day’s curtain, an anticipation rises, bubbling up within. Quiet Hope in the evening hour of Saturday, growing throughout the dark night into shouts of celebration by Sunday’s dawn. The dawn of Resurrection, and I awaken early to meet Him. Watchful, expectant, brimming. Christ has Risen, and the party is felt across the globe, across my Spirit. By Sunday’s curtain call, body aches with Joy’s strain, as if I myself had sprinted to the empty tomb- muscles afire, lungs sucking in breath hard. My head hits the pillow, watchful, expectant, brimming. Grateful.

Monday’s waking hits rough, sandpaper to soul. The open windows of a country spring morning interrupted by man’s construction crew two miles down the hill. Before feet set on floor, senses assaulted by dump trucks, whines for breakfast and a reluctant 3-year-old toilet user. “What was the day after the empty tomb like for Peter? For Mary?” I wonder, as I pour coffee and sneak back to the quiet of my bed. “Surely the celebration continued – I bet they couldn’t even sleep from excitement,” I imagine. And then what about the day after that, and the next? How does the chorus of Joy cease to sing just as loud as Sunday morning when the Victory of Life is just as real on a Tuesday? I want to transport myself back in time, sit with my coffee and the disciples and hash this out, try to understand:

what does it truly look like to walk a celebratory life, post-celebration?

My wanting of, and my walking of said life, oh they battle. Butting heads of Spirit and Soul. In the reality of waking, in the carpool line, in the strain of a relationship, in the reading of one email too many, in the noise of dump trucks. The death of condemnation, of anxiety, of fear – still for my today. The resurrection of Love, of Peace, of Living – as real as the moment “Jesus said to her, “Mary.” (John 20:16). This I know, and this I grasp on to, knock myself over the head with, yell it out loud when the noise within grows too burdensome. Pushing down the chatter, my prayer rises,

God, Please show me celebration’s path. Give me the courage to navigate it. Help me to meet your every dawn and every setting of sun, watchful, expectant, brimming. Amen.