Easter...it's what I enjoyed the most of all holidays as a child and teen. I never liked the Easter Bunny. As a matter of fact I found myself in a deep anguish as my surface sleep was haunted by a giant bunny peeking through dark windows; why do we do this to our kids???? Maybe I was the problem--maybe other kids thought it was cute and fun! Regardless, I associated Easter with newness. I always loved the pastel dresses and breezy spring day. I recall the light in the field and grassy lawns as I looked for eggs...the light.
Years later, I found myself as a young mother celebrating those same traditions with my children. Our son, only four months of age and very healthy, was suddenly taken back to our Father in Heaven on a Saturday morning, the weekend before Easter weekend, years ago. As we prepared for his burial that entire following week I was reminded of the symbolic time of year in which he was called back home to a brighter existence. When the time for a funeral date had to be set, I insisted on Friday, April 6th. April 6th, in and of itself, held a very significant meaning for me and so many who attend the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, but it also happened to be Good Friday that Easter. I recall the funeral director questioning me and asking if I would be interested in switching the services to Saturday because of the holiday that was on Good Friday. He warned us of the increase in fees which we would face in having his men work on that holiday, especially since we were burying him an hour away from where the services for his ceremony would be. As Shane's mother, I was very particular about the things that I needed at this time when I was allowing my child to be gracefully taken from his earthly parents back to his heavenly parents. When asked about how long he was in length in order to get an accurate measurement for his coffin, all of us looked at each other and I spoke up saying, "he hasn't been measured since two months, but I think he is 27 inches." The funeral director kindly excused himself and was told at that time that our son had just arrived from the hospital at the very hour we arrived at the funeral home. He had the honor of measuring him immediately after that discussion regarding the coffin size; he came back and said that I was indeed correct, he was exactly 27 inches long. So, when it came to numbers, and symbols, I knew my son, and my son knew me. I knew that I would only be pleased if he was buried on Good Friday, and hold that special symbolic date in mutual honor with our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Tonight, I read to my children from a Holy Week book that the primary gave each family in our church for Easter this year. Friday, of course, is the day that Jesus Christ – the perfect and unblemished lamb – was hung on the cross and humiliated, put through agonizing suffering, mocked, and betrayed. He was also gracefully understanding of his people who stood amongst him pointing the finger of scorn as he bore a punishment for a crime he never committed, and then his beloved friends, family, and disciples stood in grief as they watched him endure every moment of pain up unto His death. Even in His final moments He wasn't thinking of Himself, He was thinking of His people; in unjust suffering, He was thinking of each and every one of us who placed that pain upon Him through our sins. He was also thinking of His dear mother, Mary.
After Shane's death, I cried in desperate loneliness and sorrow over the baby that was taken from my arms far too soon. For hours at a time while everyone in my house slept, I flipped the pages of my Bible as tears fell upon those fragile sheets of paper, and I allowed my thoughts to go where they needed in order for me to find healing. It was the first time in my life when I had to truly think of how my grief could somehow be comforted with another; I was unable to care for myself fully, I was broken hearted. So I thought of the symbolism in burying my child on Good Friday, and the only person that I knew I could find comfort with, because of her knowledge of the sorrow and grief in losing her Son, was Mary--the pure, meek, and ever so virtuous mother of Jesus Christ. There, on that night of heavy unbearable grief, and feelings of isolation and complete loneliness, I found the place in the Scriptures where Jesus looks down upon His mother and tells her, "Mother behold thy son," and then He turns to His disciple and tells him, "son, behold thy mother". In Jesus's final moments He had no thought of himself, but one of His thoughts was for his beloved mother. He prepared a way to ensure that she would be cared for and comforted by one of His true disciples. He made sure that she would still be able to do the work of a mother, and by her Son's very own lips, before He died, He reassured her that she was still very much a beautiful gift, not only to Him; she was and would continue to be, a mother.
This year we received flowers from Steve's parents on the anniversary of Shane death this past week. I laughed when I saw the front of the card because almost every year the floral shops get simple names, like Crystal and Steve, very wrong. This year, the card only had what was supposed to be Steve's name written on the front. But instead of the name Steve, the person taking the order interpreted the name as Eve. Eve, in translation, means "the mother of all living". I felt that same comfort and peace as I read from the New Testament years ago in a quiet house only days after I had buried my third son--it came through me with the same message. Yes, I have lost my son for the period of this life, but as all women are given an innate gift , and as mother Eve was for us, I am still worthy, ordained for, and willing to be a "mother to all living"...even the child who lives on in spirit and will one day rise in tangible perfection. Even to me, Easter morn will come...it will follow the darkness that sent tears and grief into my life as a recognizable companion, it will replace the feeling of the finality of death. Easter Morn will be one of tears and hugs, with kisses on chubby cheeks and slobbery lips...it will, one day, finally overcome the feelings of darkness and grief that accompany that Friday burial.
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