The Slow Way: Resurrection and the Way of Loss
Every once in while I open my eyes and there Jesus is, bread in hand—in the middle of my joy, in the middle of my loss—holding out everything.
Last year on this day I planted a weeping redbud in honor of my dad’s birthday. Today is his birthday again, the second to pass since he’s been gone. The redbud is a little taller, and its buds have been bright purple for the past three weeks, the tips slowly releasing to the wind and easing into light green. By next week, my weeping tree will be a green tree – transformed into something utterly different. We named the tree “Little Mikey,” my Memaw’s nickname for my dad when she was alive. My dad was a calm, unflappable man, but his mother could get under his skin. And if we wanted to annoy him, calling him “Little Mikey” would do the trick.
Purple to green. Spring moves so quickly doesn’t it? I’ve been away from here, as I’m sure you noticed. I took a long break to finish my manuscript, which I turned in a few weeks ago. And then I gave myself a couple of weeks to avoid computer screens altogether. I’ve been in the sunshine as much as possible, in my garden, and playing with my boys. But it’s time. I can tell, because I’ve been thinking about what I want to tell you. That’s always the sign for me. When I’m walking through the grocery store and you’re on my mind, that’s how I know it’s time to come back here.
Of course we missed journeying through the Lenten season together. I felt that lack. And I missed getting to write through Holy Week with you as well. And I’m sure you know this, but I’ll remind you anyway, Easter is fifty days long. So there are still days to celebrate, and there is still a story to live into.
The Monday or Tuesday after Easter Sunday, I got a text from a dear one who asked me if I ever feel sad on Easter. I had to think about that question, assuming they were asking if I’m sad celebrating without certain people in my life, or if I feel the lack of something on that day. But that wasn’t actually what they were asking: They were thinking about Mary, who never really got her son back. As far as we know, Resurrected-Jesus isn’t the Jesus who once showed up at his mom’s house for a hot meal, kissing her on the cheek, and joking about stories from the past. There are no stories of Resurrected Jesus appearing to his mom at all. Maybe he did, who knows? Maybe he slept on her floor for a night. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe that wasn’t part of the story at all.
There’s a reason why Easter takes place smack in the middle of springtime. Spring is not only ridiculously transformative and colorful after a winter of gray and white and brown. It’s also brief. The color only lasts for a couple of weeks before the buds blow away and all that was pink and purple and yellow is suddenly and irreversibly green. Green is life, of course. Green is proof of photosynthesis working its magic. Green is the visible reality that oxygen is releasing into our fragile ecosystem, providing us with the invisible life-force we need to continue as a species. Green is resurrection. But, man, when the purple buds are gone, it aches a little.
Maybe that’s what my friend meant when they said they always feel a little sad at Easter. Life resurrected isn’t necessarily what it was before. New life is restorative. It’s the life we need. And it also involves loss.
This past Sunday on of my pastors, Kate Gungor, preached about Jesus appearing to Cleopas and his friend on their walk home to Emmaus from Jerusalem, as they grieved the loss of Jesus and all their hopes of who they hoped he could have been. And as they also wondered aloud about the tales of the women earlier that morning who said they had seen him. The women insisted that Jesus was alive. As the story goes, the resurrected Jesus actually walks alongside Cleopas and his buddy as they lament for the seven mile journey home. It makes me so frustrated that these guys can’t recognize him. I’m not frustrated with them, just the whole thing. I want Jesus to be recognizable. And I’m pretty sure it’s not their fault. It’s resurrection. New life, transformation, isn’t always what we think it ought to look like.
Pastor Kate said that Cleopas has to let go of his hopes and dreams of who he thought Jesus would be. He has to lament what he imagined the story would be. And that’s when the resurrected Jesus becomes clear to him. Christianity, she said, is a practice of letting go.
Maybe that’s why resurrection has a tinge of melancholy to it. Yes, it’s a restoration of life. Yes, it’s the transformation of everything. But transformation always requires we leave the old thing behind doesn’t it? “The old has gone, the new is here!” Even when it comes to Jesus and his old body. Even when his new body is walking and talking right there beside us on the road.
Little Mikey the tree is currently being soaked in a colossal weekend rainstorm. I imagine that by the time my dad’s birthday passes for the second time since he left us, the purple baby buds on the tree in my front yard will have scattered to wherever it is that purple buds go. In their place will be tiny green leaves that will grow as all leaves grow. We will move from spring to summer around here and everything, including the green things that were once colors, will stretch out and deepen in the sunshine. This is the way of new life.
As Kate said, Cleopas and his friend couldn't see Jesus. Until they could. I wish I could make that make sense. But resurrection—as a life-force that I almost miss, and as a Divine mystery that sometimes breaks my heart—that makes sense to me. Because though most often I seem to miss Jesus standing next to me. Every once in while I open my eyes, and there Jesus is, bread in hand—in the middle of my joy, in the middle of my loss—holding out everything.
A Slow Practice
What do we do with our suffering? Somehow, I think there’s an answer in the rain, and the spreading buds, and the ache of transformation. Today’s slow practice is one of paying attention.
For those of you who live in a place where budding flowers are everywhere right now (where I currently live, for example), I invite you to venture outside sometime in the next couple of days for a prayerful, contemplative walk. (No music! No podcasts!) Your task is to pay attention to anything that is flowering, whether it’s literal flowers, or trees that are budding or that have recently budded. If you can stop and look closely at them, do so. If you can smell them, even better. Try to make this time of prayer fully embodied.
If your landscape’s season of budding has already passed, notice the green of the leaves on the trees and try to remember what size and color they were when they first emerged. How have they changed? How are they changing?
As you take this walk, pray this or something something similar:
God of buds of color and leaves of green, teach me to see your mystery of resurrection in my own life.
A Note from Micha:
I’m so happy to be back with you! I’ll be working on getting back into a routine of posting on Instagram and getting my Slow Way Podcast and Slow Seven paid subscriber newsletter back up and running. So bear with me! But my manuscript is turned in and in the months ahead I’ll be able to share more details with you about my beatitudes book. Until then, thanks for waiting patiently while I took my very long internet break. So happy to be back!
Thank you! Ever since I became a mom I’ve wondered if Jesus and Mary were reunited briefly. Glad to know I’m not the only one who wonders, and holds sorrow for Mary.
Yay!! You’re back! I’ve missed you and your lovely words!