As I drove to work, I pouted a bit to myself. My mood was melancholy, and aside from missing my child’s excitement, my still childlike anticipation over Sunday service at church would be cut short too. I loved worshipping the Lord in His house, and to celebrate with other believers His resurrection meant a lot to me. I was incredibly downtrodden that I would be missing it, and although after much prayerful consideration we had decided as a family that I’d miss church on Sundays for the overall good of our home, on this particular day, I doubted my decision to work weekends.
As I drove along soaking in my bad mood it was like clarity suddenly broke through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter. In the midst of my disappointment over missing Resurrection Sunday services, I felt the Lord very clearly and strongly speak to my heart. I can hear it just as clear in my memory now.
My resurrection lives in you.
That’s all He said, but it was enough. It spoke volumes. I may have been missing church, but I wasn’t missing out on the gift of eternal life. I wasn’t missing out on the blessing of forgiveness from sin. And I wasn’t missing out on the power of the Holy Spirit that lived inside me. That same power that resurrected Jesus from the dead lived in me, and it didn’t matter where I was; it still lived in me. And I knew I could celebrate that victory over death anywhere!
Death had lost its sting, and Jesus lived. We would never die, and I didn’t need Easter eggs or even a big dinner to tell me that. My heart told me it was so.
Later that morning a coworker approached me. “I know you’re religious and stuff,” she said, “and my patient is kinda upset about being here on Easter. Can you go pray with her or something?”
Well, we had ourselves a regular bedside, Sunday service. His resurrection was in us, and that brought us both joy on that Easter Sunday, regardless of our location.
I took off every Easter Sunday after that one. Not because I required it to experience the beauty and joy of Easter, but simply because I wanted to. It was the only Sunday I would have off per year for five straight years, but the others which I worked I always made sure I carried the joy of that first Easter at the hospital bedside, the Easter that I remember most. It was the day that God reminded me that He can find me anywhere, reach into my heart, and stir it with His truth, joy, and the peace that accompanies a life redeemed, a life bought and paid in full by the blood of Jesus Christ. I reckon that trumps all the rest of it any day; even chocolate rabbits.
