This Reminds Me

I’ve always loved Easter.  Growing up in the church of Christ, I looked forward all year to the suffocating drone of “Low in the Grave He Lay,” with its joyous chorus of “He Arose.”  I knew someone would invite us to an egg hunt, and Easter morning, David and I would discover baskets in the living room.  We loved those colorfully-shelled marshmallow’y eggs we could wallow around in our mouths to make “juice.”

Rachel, Lois and Hannah have always loved Easter, too, for many of the same reasons.  They were born into a family of believers.  They’ve learned – over time – to distinguish the rabbits from the Redeemer, and the marshmallow from the matzoh.  By age 7, they could tell the resurrection story.  And they continue to learn.  Here’s Hannah in last Sunday night’s children’s Easter program at church:

Beautifully recited.  All the right words.  But….but……but….what do they mean to our newest seven-year-old, Julia?  I guarantee that “lamb in the center of the throne” and “lead them into the springs of living water” mean zippo to her.

Like we did with Christmas, we’ve been trying to teach Julia the real story of the holiday.  It’s tough.  I never realized how much “absorption” kids did with Sunday School, home discussions, etc. until we got Julia.  She had no bible knowledge or training whatsoever.   None of the Christian code phrases – “son of God,” “died for our sins,” “our redeemer” – roll off her lips.

We don’t want her to be a good little robot who sits quietly in church and behaves in Sunday School because it’s expected (though it’d be nice!).  We want her to learn so that one day she can choose to accept.  Just like we did with Rachel, Lois and Hannah.  Only instead of years of Sunday School, VBS, dinner discussions, movies, books, etc., we are dealing with a shaky-English foundation only months old.

I found a book that’s helped a lot.  It looks like a toddler book – thick pages, board cover – but its contents are more meaty.  We’ve been reading it every night.  Slowly.  Painfully.  Exhaustively.  Because every sentence and drawing elicits discussion.

Two verbatim discourses:

Number 1

Mom:  Jesus is alive.  He lives in Heaven, and in my heart.

Julia:  If I cut your heart with knife, can I see little Jesus?

Mom:  No, no, when Jesus lives in your heart, that means he is with you and he helps you.  He talks to me when I pray.

Julia:  Pray now.  Tell me what little Jesus say to you.

Number 2

Mom:  Bad men wanted to kill Jesus.

Julia:  LIke bad men when he baby?  They put baby Jesus on cross?

Mom:  No, no, the big man Jesus was killed on the cross.

Julia:  Why he no run away?

Mom:  He didn’t run away because he knew he had to be killed to help us.

Julia:  (with rolled eyes) If he killed, he no help us.

I leave her room mentally exhausted, but spiritually refreshed.  I can’t talk “Christian code” with her.  I can’t blither about the ”blood of the lamb,” ”our sin,” or “the transfiguration.”   “The upper room” means our game room to her.  “The rock of ages” is what’s poured out of her shoes after a trip to the playground.   Every Friday is “Good Friday” for her, because that means no school for two days.

The last words Jesus physically spoke on this earth were to give us the Great Commission.  It applies to the peoples of Africa, China, all the missionary locales….including those under our roof.  As parents, we know we’re responsible for this little (future) disciple.  So we can’t just fluff up the plastic grass, sling the Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs and call it a day.

I can’t take the Easter message for granted, when I have to reduce it to its simplest terms night after night, unsure of what’s being retained.

And because I can’t take it for granted – I, too, am really experiencing Holy week.   I feel the joy of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem when I say, “The people loved Jesus.  They put down leaves for his donkey to walk on.”  I feel the pain of Judas’ betrayal when I pucker up and say, “Judas told the bad men who Jesus was by kissing him.”   When we turn to the page that shows the cross, I feel my hands clinch, glimpsing the agony delivered by hammer when I say, “They put nails in his hands and feet to hold him on the cross.”  I feel the awe of the resurrection, saying again and again, “Jesus didn’t stay dead.  God made me alive again.  He’s still alive..”  And I feel the wonder of Jesus’ ascention when I exclaim, “Look at Jesus fly to Heaven!  We will go to Heaven one day, too.”

Jesus loves me, this I know – the baby Jesus, the adult Jesus, especially the little Jesus in my heart.

For the bible tells me so.

Especially this week.