The Wild Beauty of Resurrection

It’s been weeks since Easter. As everyone else seems to be moving on from the empty tomb, I can’t stop thinking about his resurrection.

I think about the disciples after his crucifixion. Three days to process the inconceivable loss of their leader, teacher, mentor, friend, brother. Did they try to comfort themselves with the same platitudes we often resort to? You know, the phrases that start with the cringe-worthy at least his suffering is over; he’s in heaven; he’s with so-and-so in heaven; we have good memories of him. You know, it could have been worse.

Or, were they able to look at this bewildering situation, and like the wandering Israelites, ask of the manna, “What is it?” Could they own their disappointment, heartbreak, incredulity, the very real sense that maybe God got this ending wrong? Call it what it was instead of airbrushing it with some silver-lining pseudo-gospel? Give up the fool’s gold as they wrestled with this harrowing plot twist?

My friend Kimberly recently wrote about embodiment. How Jesus inhabited a body. He drank. Ate. Pooped. He was God in our likeness, in substance human. And in his humanness, how did Jesus suffer the crucifixion? Beforehand in the garden, he acknowledged the agony of accepting this as God’s best answer. He wept, became physically undone. He didn’t say Well, at least I know how this all turns out.

Is it possible that if we refuse the fool’s gold of a silver lining, then we can revel in the glorious reality of resurrection? Only then, perhaps, will the life-giving power of resurrection bind us up, hold us together, and hold us in awe when life gets turned upside down.

When our oldest son was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder, the initial shock left me reeling. Suddenly, my life was marked by before diagnosis and after diagnosis. The person I’d been, the mom I’d expected to be, the son I thought I’d have, died.  Strangely, though, I found myself still living. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be alive in this new, bewildering life. I was tempted by the silver-lining sentiments: You’re the perfect parents for him. At least he has his daddy’s red hair. Oh, he’s just fine the way he is.

None of that really helped when my story seemed to go so unbearably off course. I think about Jesus and the disciples. The unexpected ending where they’re left shaking their heads in confusion, doubt, and sadness. And yes, resurrection was coming. But imagine what resurrection might have felt like. Sucking in that first violent, shuddering, life-after-death breath. Shocked into breathing again, living again, being again.

We aren’t given an account of Jesus’ first resurrection moments, but I know what it felt like when I woke up to a new life, a new reality after my son’s diagnosis. Ragged breaths. Fumbling hands. Burning lungs. Pounding head. Thudding heart. Nerves invigorated. Blood pulsing. The reflecting light made me wince. But that was the pain of nerves coming alive again. Of sinew, muscle, and love reconnecting.

As we began walking up this pebbly, dirt-covered hill; began looking this strange, new manna straight on, the tiniest bit of hope began to nudge my heart. Wild, uncurated grass poked through in places, and wildflowers bloomed sporadically and astonishingly in unexpected places. To look at it was to wonder how it even is. How can our life bloom in this desert?

There’s a light shining so truly that now, perhaps for the first time, we see rightly. Instead of a silver lining, we see true, resplendent glory. We find that God is piecing us back together. Whole again but reformed. Reshaped. Remade. More in his image. He looks at us, at our boy, and says we are good.

Tonight, I left my husband playing with our three kids in the backyard while I escaped for a short walk. You know those habits that once were such an ordinary part of your rhythm but over time, slowly slip away? And one day you realize, hey, I miss that cadence. So I quietly slipped on my shoes and out my front door, briefly chatting with my neighbor before winding my way through our neighborhood. Looking at each house, I wondered about the lives, the hopes, the dreams, that live there. I wondered how their stories are turning out, what plot twists mark their lives. Are they like the walking dead? Or have they experienced something like resurrection? One degree of difference, and the whole story changes.

Our neighbors’ yards are nicely mowed with carefully planted flowers blooming every few steps. I enjoy the beauty and inhale the sweet scent of jasmine, honeysuckle, magnolias, and roses. As I walk, I pray:

God, the ultimate creative, take our messes, our dreams deferred, our dying hopes, the washed up has been, this defeated dreamer and MAKE US GOOD. Like in the beginning, God, when you looked at the sun and the moon and the stars and the sea, you looked at it, looked at what you had done and said this is good.

The power of your words to speak life. To resurrect dry bones.  Turn me just one degree different and the story becomes Yours. This story I wouldn’t have written. This that turned out so differently than anything I had planned. This thing I’ve looked at too many times and said it’s not good. Lord, in your mercy, in your infinite life-giving words, make it good.

Resurrection feels like love, a reminder that we have not been left behind, alone, or without Him. In His love He breathes hope into our lungs.  When we turn our eyes to the wild beauty of the unexpected, the infinite possibilities of grace will resurrect our hearts.

Allison Byxbe is a writer, blogger, and occasional college professor. She lives with her husband, three kiddos, and dogs Nate and Jemma in South Carolina. When she’s not writing or teaching others to write, she enjoys hiking, making beeswax wraps, learning about natural health, taking road trips, and drinking the perfect latte. Allison loves to connect with others about family, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. Her writing has been featured on The Mighty and Her View from Home, and you can find more of it on her blog Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy.

Photograph © Rebecca Orlov, used with permission