Victoria Advocate, A Different Perspective
Does anyone besides me think the devil works overtime, keeping us all so busy that we don’t make time to celebrate the best news ever? It’s Holy Week. A remembrance of the time Jesus announced his ministry by riding a donkey to Jerusalem, only to be met with criminal accusations and beaten severely. Jealous Jewish religious leaders manipulated Pilate into pronouncing a sentence of death. He was crucified, died, and buried in a grave not his own.
But that’s not the end of the story.
Easter is the celebration of what happened next. Jesus Christ didn’t stay dead. On Sunday, He rose again. Eyewitnesses provided testimony that they saw Him alive. In fact, there’s more proof of Jesus rising from the dead than Julius Caesar ever living. Funny how nobody seems to doubt the tremendous gaps in the history of Julius Caesar.
Amid a busy week with a book launch in progress and all the communication about our family Easter dinner, I remind myself it’s Holy Week. I ask the Lord to cleanse my heart and quiet my mind so I can worship the one true God. He’s our reason to celebrate. Much as I love egg hunts and get-togethers, it’s not about those things. It’s about renewing our faith. Choosing to believe and remain faithful to God’s life-giving plan for all humanity. Presenting my entire self as a servant to a God who deserves no less than everything I am.
As glad as I am for a special season to worship the Lord, other events still take place. My class reunion happened last weekend in Corpus Christi. When one classmate admitted she had to have her arm twisted to go, I could relate. In fact, if I’d had any legitimate reason NOT to go, I would have grabbed it.
And I would have missed out on a treasured milestone.
We drove up early Saturday morning for a tour of Mary Carroll’s brand new high school campus. The enormous size and the beauty of the campus astonished me. The sweet little assistant principal escorted us everywhere, but—and I’m giggling here—her frame of reference seemed to stop somewhere in the 1990s. Our class preceded the nineties by twenty years.
Next, we were off to a special lunch earmarked for band members at Kikos. I can’t adequately describe how marvelous it was to reconnect with people I hadn’t seen in years. We were obnoxiously loud, and one person photobombed every official picture the staff took.
After a leisurely afternoon, we drove to the main dinner at the Country Club on Everhart. Having attended previous reunions, I knew the drill. First stop was the registration table to get my nametag. It had a thumbnail duplicate of my yearbook picture and included both my maiden name and married name. As it was, we all leaned in close to read the nametags to recognize each other. Totally necessary.
The food was scrumptious—and there was way too much. The photo booths stayed busy, as did the wet bar. There was a lovely dance floor, but nobody danced. We were all too busy visiting. My husband had to leave twice for his sanity, because of the constant roar crashing through his hearing aids. It was also the one time it was perfectly acceptable to walk up to someone and said, “Do I know you?” We’d peer at our respective name tags, scream, and hug each other.
Promises to stay in touch abounded, but, you know, life happens.
As fantastic as the event was, I look forward to a different reunion. The one where I’ll get to see my Savior face-to-face. The One who made it possible for me to have a restored relationship with God.
Trust me, there’s no comparison.