Sunday, April 08, 2007

Pastel Irony

pale green four year old eyes see Easter only in Pastels
the pitter patter of patten leather when dresses ring like bells
eggs hide under tall, white lilies waiting to be found
marshmallow chicks pop from shells, masking a meaning more profound
She rubs her eyes and wakes up to an Easter basket in her room
too young to see the blood on the cross or hear the echo of an empty tomb
oh, she knows the story from cardboard books and reads "Jesus died"
smiling faces waving palms, and counting the twelve men by Your side
a pastel version of a violent week, I wish I could show her what's missing
three times denied, one last meal, and Judas two-faced kissing,
the sound of nails crushing bones in hands that came to heal
Your desperate plea to a distant father that night You went up to kneel,
Your silence at the accusations, Your love for those who attacked,
the words to the thief on the cross, the blood running down Your back,
a strength in ultimate sacrifice and a love we never imagined,
it's all just a little too much for her preschool mind to fathom,
I know she'll have to find You herself when she finally comes of age
I hope I'm there when she cries at the sight of the true glory on that full page
She's marching in the Pastel parade without knowing the battle before
her ringlets dance to the victory song without knowing the cost of the war
For now, I smile at her beauty and take snapshots of her in Pastels
and match her giggles when she dies her fingers along with smooth eggshells
Thank you, Lord, for the changing path that will lead to that long awaited day
when she will chase after and cling for life to the true meaning of Easter Sunday.

"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.'' John 11:25

Whips and fists and tears and chains are the chapter headings of the human story--a story that's still unfolding, still being told. A tale in which darkness is alive, and hell is too often at high tide. But there's one thing stronger than the chains on our souls: the love of a Jewish carpenter. The crack of dawn at Easter is really the sound of chains falling away." Steven James, Story

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