An Easter at Home

Never alone

Never forsaken

Praising His name

We can never be shaken

There was so much encouragement this week and so much extra grace. And I needed it badly. Over and over. 

Rereading a chapter in one of my favorite books, Sally Clarkson’s The Lifegiving Home, about how Jesus loved and served and encouraged His disciples in the upper room and spoke such loving words, challenging me to love and serve my family with true humility, just as He washed their feet and poured courage into their souls. (I may have accepted the challenge and taken it out on the shower, which was extra sparkly for my weary husband when he returned home from work on this crazy Saturday afternoon before Easter.) But seriously. Rereading this as we are all remaining in our homes week after week was such a timely reminder for me, and the words truly renewed my focus on this front, reminding me of my great privilege to love as He loved and serve as He served. I can, because He did. There it is again, the gospel crashing into my life all over again, informing my decisions, changing my attitude, shaping my mothering, my housekeeping, my wife-ing (sure, it’s a word).

And then, last night, listening to our Iowa home church’s Good Friday service. (Don’t worry, I’m catching our church’s service next.) Jesus was condemned so that I could be set free, punished so that I could be pardoned, forsaken so that we could be family. Walking together through Mark’s account of the crucifixion and singing such truths together—it refreshed my heart all over again. “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” is one of my favorite hymns, and it was sung to the tune of “As the Hart Longs for Flowing Streams” in such a beautiful arrangement. “There Is a Fountain,” “How Deep the Father’s Love for Us,” “The Mystery of the Cross,” and “Jesus, Thank You.” 

I cannot sing “Once your enemy, now seated at your table” without weeping and reciting Ephesians in my head. 

By your perfect sacrifice I’ve been brought near

Your enemy you’ve made your friend

Pouring out the riches of Your glorious grace

Your mercy and Your kindness know no end

Every single time, it takes my breath away. Thank you, Lord, for your indescribably love for us, while we were yet sinners! 

And, as I sat there in my living room, singing along, harmonizing with my dear friends miles and miles away, and thinking of fellow believers next door and across town and all across the country and the globe, sitting on their couches, gathered at their tables, singing in groups of two or three, or big families of 10 or, especially those who are all alone, my dear single friends—I had this thought. Our triune God hears all of us as one big, beautiful, ginormous choir. He can hear me and Maria and Londa in three-part harmony even though we can’t hear each other right now. For that matter, He is entirely unbounded by time and space, as we are. What if He hears all of the millions of believers down through the ages, all lifting their voices at once in praise to His name? Why shouldn’t He? He’s God. He spoke the universe into existence, after all. He can hear Creation’s song, His poema, His bride, lifting our voices in praise to Himself, to the only One Who is worthy.

So I was imagining us all singing together, knowing we are never alone, never forsaken, singing His praises, in all of the mountains and valleys that every believer has ever faced. How breathtaking would that song be? Every mother singing to her child in the face of adversity. Every father singing to Him even as he prays for a renewed source of income to support his family. Choosing to trust and to rest in His great name. And what of all the songs that floated to heaven from the martyrs, perhaps as they entered the ring, or were being tied to the stake, knowing that death was coming? Or perhaps believing Jews entering the gas chambers? What of all the sacrifices of praise being offered in war-torn countries, in poor villages, at deathbeds of family members, in persecuted churches, and in little global pandemics like ours? He hears them all, He sees the great faith, and the mustard seeds of faith that He is growing into greater faith, and He delights in our praise. He anchors us just as He has anchored each and every saint from the beginning of time. 

Then I was thinking of the sting of death, especially for those who grieve. April is hard every year. My sweet brother went home to be with Jesus ten years ago, but it feels like yesterday. And friends have lost a child or a spouse this year, and I can’t even pretend to comprehend the depth of their pain. But I was thinking of the actual sting. Sin is death’s sting, and it’s strength is the law. Christ defeated sin and death. He fulfilled the law. He satisfied the Father’s wrath against sin, once for all. So the permanence of death, the real hopelessness of it, has been demolished. We grieve with hope. 

Which reminded me, then, oddly, of what our enemy must feel. Utter defeat, anger, despair, fury. Then end has been decided. There is no maybe, no uncertainty. The God of the universe has won, and so our enemy prowls, angry, restless, knowing it’s a rigged deck, knowing that all his best schemes can never bully play out, but are thwarted, ultimately cut short as he once again reaches the end of his leash, knowing it’s only a matter of time until he’s permanently silenced. He’s furious, free to wreak havoc, but within a specified time limit. His terror shrunk, his power contained, an expiration date indelibly stamped on his bruised head. He fights back, straining against constraint, hating the boundaries, knowing he has already lost. Because nothing, absolutely nothing, can separate us from God’s love. 

All the wickedness the enemy can summon now are a mere shadow of what he’d hoped. He thought he could kill the Maker. He thought he HAD killed the Maker. But the Maker had laid down his own life. And the laws that transcend time and space—the laws that existed when only the Maker existed, before evil itself was born—trump all of the wicked one’s schemes. Death could not hold him. The chains of death are made strong by sin, and in Him was no sin. Not a hint. Not a trace. Not a whisper. Not even the faintest echo. 

The terms of this contract are non-negotiable. The Father has given us to Him, and then He sealed it by His blood, and then re-sealed it with His Holy Spirit. A doubly unbreakable seal. No one can pluck us from His hand. Nothing can separate us from His love. Not anything. Ever.

Tribulation. Distress. Persecution. Famine. Nakedness. Danger. Sword. Death. Life. Angels. Rulers. Things present. Things to come. Powers. Height. Depth. Nor anything else in all creation. That part always reminds me that God understands children. There’s always that one kid that’s like, “But, Dad, what about _____?” 

And He’s like, “Yeah, not that either.” 

I’m usually that kid. “Not even ____?” 

“Nope.”

“Ok. Got it. Thanks, Dad.”

And you know He’s not rolling His eyes. I mean, in all honesty, He might be laughing, but not laughing AT me, just chuckling like a dad, amused, loving his child, really SEEING His child, looking straight at me, smiling, tousling my hair affectionately, shaking His head with a heart full of unconditional love for me. The kind that laid down His life willingly, so that I could live and know Him and love Him and be known and loved by Him. 

Nothing, nothing, NOTHING will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. In all these things, we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. So take heart. In the world you will have tribulation. In the world you will have grief and struggle and hardship and suffering and weird pandemics and weeks and months of upheaval that will, in all likelihood, get harder and weirder before getting better. But take heart. He has overcome the world. Like, totally, one hundred percent obliterated sin and death. Smashed it to bits. Thor-hammered it, if you’re a Marvel fan. It has no more power. Absolutely none. We have nothing to fear, and everything to look forward to. 

In this season, may my heart remain grateful, quick to praise, quick to humble myself before my loving Creator Who gave Himself for me. He looked on Him and pardoned me! Singing that never ever gets old. Let’s sing it all by ourselves together. He hears us. And He rejoices over us with singing, too. And let’s remember, in our isolation, that we are not isolated. We are not alone. Through the storm, I am held, it is well, it is well with my soul. The challenges are real. They are different for each of us, and yet the same. And He is still, always and forever, enough.

My debt has been paid in full by Christ’s own blood. My future has been secured. By His stripes I have been healed. My standing has been permanently switched from enemy to family, because the cross bore the Lamb of God and the tomb is empty. 

You know what else is empty? Any words of accusation the enemy can fling at us. There is now no condemnation to those who are in Christ. We are free from the law of sin and death. Free from its bondage. He has brought us from death to life. I cannot wait to celebrate the Resurrection of my Savior tomorrow, with all of you. Yes, WITH you. Because in Him we live and move and have our being. Because He unites all things unto Himself. Because His love is in us, and we are in Him, and we are His body, joined together and being built together even now, even in this, with Him as our Head, our cornerstone, our everything. Let’s celebrate Him together. Our Savior lives, and because He lives, we can face tomorrow. We can live it to its fullest, abiding in Him. Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee, How Great Thou Art!