Easter: The Struggle is Real

On March 25, 2016, it was Good Friday. On April 23, 2000, it was Easter Sunday.

Easter weekend is making a habit out of taking my family from this earth, but instead of allowing the bright pastels and colored eggs to dampen my spirit, I need to remember this holiday’s true significance. Only then can I begin healing from the damage of grief’s sharp sword. I need to remember what this holiday actually signifies. I have to believe in the resurrection of Christ as both my father and grandmother did. Instead of hurting so much on a weekend like this, I need to remember the promise of what is to come to His children.

When I was fourteen, my grandmother arose in preparation of her church’s sunrise service on Easter Sunday. When her absence alarmed her pastor, he called to no answer. He went to her house where he found a tragic and horrific scene. He called my father with the terrible news. Grandma’s husband had shot and killed her. He then gave himself the same fate.

Leaving the kitchen phone, my father walked by me in the living room en route to go upstairs to tell my mother. He stopped, however, and delivered the shocking news to me. I didn’t comprehend what had really happened until I went upstairs to join my parents. The only time I saw my father bury his head in his hands and sob was the most chilling and painful feeling I could never have imagined.

My parents left for Knoxville immediately that afternoon while my other grandmother came to stay with me and my brother.

I went to school the next day. I couldn’t imagine NOT going to school. I was in shock, and staying at home to think about what had happened was not appealing to me. I only missed one day of school, Thursday of that week for the funeral in Millington, Tennessee.

I can’t share any more.

Then…there was last Easter when my dad passed from an accident. I for sure wasn’t ready for that.

This weekend has hit me harder than any before. I’m struggling to eat, to keep my head up; I haven’t even gotten out of bed.

But I don’t hate Easter. I realize its significance and I appreciate it. I guess I’m just at a place in my life where I have more family in the ground than living. Maybe it won’t always be like this.

It just hurts…hurts really really bad…to lose most of what you had. I guess that’s normal. Even Jesus felt His Father had forsaken Him during Friday’s agony on the cross.

But then…Sunday arrived.