Today I am thinking of resurrections and messes. Because yesterday, we celebrated the former and today, I am a picture of the latter.

Sitting on my fire escape just a few minutes ago (a.k.a. my daily communion with nature) I watched as multiple cars tried, one after the other, to fit into a parking spot along the curb.  The spot was inches too short for each car, and watching their struggle from above made me wonder if this is how God feels most of the time, eyeing us as we flounder around life then pick a spot to land that doesn’t fit us at all when he already has an empty lot waiting around the corner that suits us perfectly.  Instead of consulting him, we hem and haw, preen and peck, forward and reverse, bang and bump our way into realizing we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.  Maybe we catch a glimpse of him smiling and we whine, “What’s so funny?” and start to think that he’s leveled his magnifying glass at us once more, just aching to fry us good, when really we’re the ones who are making life so tough.  But that smile is in no part laughter at our expense, rather it is the same look he gave to the rich young ruler who defended himself with examples of how clean he had kept his life.  He looked at him and loved him.  Because even though Jesus knew what would happen next–that the young man would walk away from him rather than walk away from his own money–he loved the kid.  So much for keeping life clean, though.

Yesterday I listened to beautiful music accompanied by eternal truth and the predominant thought in my mind was, Please don’t let me start choking on my own snot.  The coughing has not let up–yet–and until it does I am reduced to dirty tissues, gagging, wheezing, and general unhealth and unprettiness.  I’m too tired to even try: try sounding like some creature other than a goat; try covering the sounds of hacking up phlegm in the bathroom; try being anything other than wrecked and helpless.

The Good News I believe, that whole “resurrection” caveat to Christianity that makes it different from anything else out there, is that God can do a whole lot more with my messes than my attempts to appear clean.  My perfectionism got me good grades in school but in walking with him, it’s nothing more than a liability to fully embracing grace.  Not to mention a waste of time and effort.  All the imperfections I try to hide or fix are raw material in his hands, and with them he can use me in ways he can’t use anyone else.  Just like everyone else.  Yesterday the BF and his parents and I saw Wicked and I was reminded once again why it doesn’t always pay to be the prom queen.  My various forms of green skin have a reason.

The Resurrection is slightly more than an excuse to hide eggs.  It only changes everything.  Any event that can turn death from an end to an intermission is worth thinking about.  Not to mention sickness, failure, loss–they all look different if he really did come back.  I’m not a fan of trite phrases, but this one has some merit: It will all turn out for good in the end.  If it’s not good, then it’s not the end. Hey, it’s better than everything happens for a reason.  The Sis and I have been laughingly lobbing that one at each other the past few days as I gasp for air and she hates her job.  Which doesn’t take away from the fact that everything DOES happen for a reason, but the statement implies that the only missing step between us and happiness is finding that reason.  And sometimes that’s just none of our damn business right now.  There is someone who has a complete view of things, and he is at the parking lot around the corner saving you a spot–your spot–if you’d like to meet him.  He may not tell The Sis why her job sucks so horribly right now, or tell me why I have to fight a battle for possession of my lungs, or tell my Yankee fam why cancer had to claim one of their best.  But what he does say, with the Resurrection, is that none of that is the end of the story.  There is, now, always a yet.  The stone will be rolled away, the water will be turned into wine (thank God, I am so missing my nightly glass of red), and everything sad will come untrue.  An empty tomb says so.