The weight settled in yesterday afternoon. No warning. No explanation. Joy–gone. Enter despair.
House is a mess. I am failing as a homemaker. Kids in an argument. I have failed as a mom. Husband didn’t have time to keep a promise. Our marriage must be failing.
Folders are full of papers waiting to be graded. I am completely disorganized. Grading them discloses skills far from mastered. Failing as a teacher.
Growing cranky. Losing the fight against the gloom pressing in. Snap at a child. Worst mom ever.
Bedtime clash sends daughter to bed early, in tears. I’ve ruined her Easter before it began, apparently.
Bedtime clash with husband, now I’m fighting tears. One side of me completely aware that Satan’s henchmen probably have mandatory overtime with pastors’ wives on the day before Easter. Another side of me completely aware of nothing but all my failures.
Morning comes before I’m ready. Crying out to the Lord. Help me rejoice! More tears from the daughter who can’t do what she wants with her hair. The outfit I thought finally fit again doesn’t pass muster. Ashamed of my body. Dishes in the sink leftover from last night scream “Failure!” Putting lunch in the crockpot, slammed by the thoughts of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins celebrating miles away without us.
Retreat to the shower begging for mercy. Repeating what I know to be true, please let it sink in. Trying not to talk much to keep from spreading my despair. The battle in my mind is exhausting. I refuse to give in to the sadness.
Sunday school–“Do we have to listen to those Jesus songs again?” My mouth tells the story my heart longs to remember. Eight sets of eyes intent on me. The stone is rolled away. Their faces light up, the despair cracks a little.
They sing for the grown-ups–“Hooray! He’s alive!” The clouds begin to roll away.
Genesis 22–Isaac was given back, a substitute was sacrificed. John 19–It is finished.
I believe. I see. My failures–finished. My lamb–provided.
The cross was not the end. The tomb is empty. I have been raised to new life, now even as I still fight the fight.
Still no feeling of exuberant excitement. Only a deep, deep quiet gratitude.
“Woman, why are you crying?” “Rabboni!”
I recognize Him. I am a failure. I need a substitute. He is my righteousness. It is enough.
It is finished.
Praise the Lord!