I'm not a fan of Lent, nor mortality for that matter. And as a friend said today, it feels that we have been stuck in an elongated Lent since last year. I'm always more than ready to move to Easter, with acclimations of new life and the celebration of spring. And I love Easter worship. Every part of it. I recall a sermon I gave years ago in which I shared that if you can come to church only once a year, come on Easter.

And I miss it again this year.  And today, less than a week after my first chemotherapy treatment, I feel, well, yucky. Not nauseated, not really tired, just kind of awful. I suspect it's to be expected that some days I would not feel terrific. But even with my physical discomfort, I feel joy and hope and promise and compassion and gratitude and grace. Yes, Easter.

Job 14:14 "If mortals die, will they live again?" It's a common question when confronted with our own death or that of beloved family and friends. Amidst the passion narrative detailing the events between Jesus crucifixion and resurrection is Saturday. A day of grief. We know the answer to the question. We have stood in many cemeteries, placed flowers, traced the letters in ancient stones. Saturday was a day of grief and final preparations. And they, the women, would return on Sunday to wrap the body, and anoint it with spices.

Michael and Judy wrapped our Japanese Maples in preparation for the hard freeze these last two nights. I watched. And thought how much their wrapping was an act of care, in similar manner that the women were preparing so long ago to wrap Jesus. 

After a year of Covid distancing, how much we long to wrap, embrace, care for friends and family. When I prayed for the sick, I would ask if it was okay if we held hands. There was power in the touch, in illness, in despair, in worry, in grief. More than any words we would say, we were wrapped in compassion. How often in my ministry did I rush through the activities of the Easter weekend and miss the significance of the Saturday preparation to do the final act of caring? And how it would prepare our hearts to see Sunday!

Good Friday. First disclaimer. This is not my art work. It was created by my niece, Diane. She was born with Down's Syndrome. She loves art. And although her communication skills are limited, she is expressive with color and seems to intuitively understand the relationships between colors. I find it fascinating. But her art and her persona came to mind as I read scripture for Good Friday, from the prophet Isaiah: "Surely he has born our infirmities and carried our diseases, yet we accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted." (52:13) I was caught by the invisibility and the shunning of those who appear different. We grievously and mistakenly conclude that somehow they are less than we are. Their condition is someone's fault or a punishment from God. How wrong we are. The core of the salvation story of Holy Week is about a man who willingly suffered punishment and death because of a sinful, unjust political and religious structure. And through that death came life for the invisible and the afflicted and the suffering. And rather than being ignored, dismissed, overlooked, abandoned, we all are gathered into one embraced community with a diversity of color and gifts.

Maundy Thursday, another significant gathering time for the Christian community, arising out of the Passover meal. The people at table together. Jesus's prediction of suffering. He knelt and washed their feet as an act of service and compassion. A neighborly act for dusty feet two thousand years ago, but striking that the host would cleanse and soothe the feet of travelers, a task usually performed by servants. We still long to gather at table and compassionately care for the guests beside us. We hold hands, we laugh, we cry, we note those who are no longer with us, we pause to cherish this moment for it may never be the same again. We eat the bread, we drink the cup. We remember. And join the psalmist: "Thank God because he's good, because his love never quits. Tell the world..."The Message, Psalm 118.

I've been meditating on this scene this week. The stones and the moss were moved two years ago from gardening friends of ours who sold their life-long home to move to assisted living and who offered their garden to all who wanted parts of it. We bought home several carloads of flat stones to create a patio off the south side of our deck and Judy planted the moss between each stone. And just like last spring, green fills the cracks between the stones. Have you noticed how green fills cracks? Sidewalks, street cracks, brick and stone walls. I noticed green is invading my shed. Cedar trees grow in the cracks along the stone cuts where the highway cuts through the hills. Wherever the surface is disturbed and broken, green grows. Life will not be denied. Sometimes we call it weeds because it's growing where it's unwanted. But it still grows to reclaim. There are broken places in our lives, cracks, disruptions, opportunities for green to poke though. When it's unexpected. These days, this week, I call it hope. 

The first chemotherapy session is done. We didn't get a lot of clarity as the bone marrow results are not in yet, and the nurse did her job, as Dr. Thompson said she would, to tell us of all the possible side effects. That was the only nauseous moment of the day as she factually described unpleasantness. I have a plastic, electric powered injection machine that is supposed to deliver medication tonight that emits a bright green flash every few seconds. I'm the first firefly of the season to show up at the Hideaway. And I picked up two additional nausea medications plus Prednisone from the pharmacy that I am supposed to take for next five days. Go back in a week to check white blood count and do it all again in three weeks. I did see that I am stage IIE which means it's early and is located in extranodal tissue (my stomach) as well as a lymph node. It was a long process as I was in the clinic for 8 1/2 hours. Plus rush hour traffic both ways. We timed that right, didn't we? 

We are so appreciative of all the encouragement and prayers. It means a lot to receive the messages.

Today is the beginning of my healing. My first chemotherapy session. I admit that I am anxious about all that I don't know: results of tests, the procedure, my physical reaction to chemo and all the days following. Fascinating that I begin this journey as the Christian community begins holy week. 22 weeks ago I began to look toward the future and imagined that by Easter, we would be vaccinated and spring will have burst out with proclamation of new life, and we would begin some semblance of "normal". I kept reminding friends how many weeks until Easter as the calendar pages were being turned. I did not expect this turn of events. But I am fortunate and blessed, surrounded by prayer partners. When I told my Kurdish neighbor Sabrina that I had a different kind of cancer and needed her prayers, she stopped our conversation, covered her hair with her black lace scarf, lifted both hands with palms to the sky and began to pray. It was a holy moment. My healing has begun as the tulips bloom in the backyard of the Hideaway on Holy Monday.

Even the most nominal church-goer recognizes the story of Jesus entering Jerusalem with the crowd waving palms and welcoming the Messiah into the occupied city. Change is about to happen, in ways that few can anticipate. 

The lesson from Psalms for the day cites portions of Psalm 118 which begins and ends with the phrase "his steadfast love endures forever!" Constant, unending, compassion and grace is announced over and over, not only by this psalm, but others which affirm this experience of God's love. God's love will not weaken or disappear. God's love is for this moment and all those that follow. Change will happen in our circumstances, but our experience of God's care for us is an embrace that will not quit. Ever.