Resurrection

Last Thursday a friend of mine asked a mutual friend, “Have you chosen your word for the year?”

“Yes, I have,” our friend said, a smile illuminating her face. “It’s ‘resurrection.’”

I didn’t realize till that moment how much I needed that word. I immediately pictured a bright red cardinal (I’d just seen one with his mate earlier that day in the crepe myrtle off our back patio). Cardinals symbolize many things, one of which is heavenly visitors who bring messages from loved ones in heaven, but I’ve always thought of them in relation to resurrection. They remind me of Philippians 3:20-21:

But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself.

We had that verse, along with a cardinal and dogwood blossoms, etched onto Keren’s gravemarker. This past Friday, January 28, the day after my friend told us her word, was the thirteenth anniversary of Keren’s death. We’ve had thirteen years of looking toward resurrection. 

There is so much life in that word, and I know my friend was particularly considering the emotional and spiritual aspects of resurrection for her and her family this year. As much as I hope and long for the eventual physical resurrection, I needed the reminder that there can be other kinds of resurrection in my life right now.

For some reason this January has been darker than the past few years. Maybe it’s the fact that we had a busy, wonderful visit with Kraig’s family over Christmas that ended with a dragging cold (just the regular kind, but still blah). Maybe it was the thread running throughout the visit reminding us that our parents are all getting older, and Kraig’s parents are facing serious health challenges, and I’ve had a few conversations with friends my age who are facing that same realization. Maybe it’s the knowledge that this March I’ll hit half a century, and that Kraig and my kids and their many cousins are speeding toward adulthood. Maybe it’s the fact that my friend Pam faced the first anniversary of her son’s death this January. Maybe it’s that the world seems to be in more and more chaos—Covid and other illnesses cancel events, U.S. politics grow increasingly partisan, Russia bullies Ukraine, China presses harder and harder on those within its borders…and without. Our local church limps through the process of identifying who we are and who we should be, and what hurts need to be healed. The darkness presses in.

We arrived home from Michigan late New Year’s Eve, and New Year’s Day was cloudy and warm. Our Japanese maple put out a couple premature blooms, cups of fuschia held against the gray sky. I was happy to see the color after two weeks of northern winter deadness, but any time that tree blooms early I flinch because I know the blooms won’t last. Sure enough, the temperatures plummeted by January 2, and the few blooms drooped and browned. The rest of the buds have kept closed since, and though they often bloom at the end of January, right around Keren’s heaven-day, they haven’t yet this year. I miss them, but I am content to wait, because the later they bloom, the less likely they are to get zapped by frost. Resurrection is worth waiting for.

But yes, January has been bleaker than usual. We’ve kept our Christmas tree up with its jewel-toned lights beating back the dark. I learned about Candlemas this year, the feast on February 2 that celebrates the day Mary and Joseph took Jesus to the temple and Simeon held him and said, “…my eyes have seen your salvation that you prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.” My friend Sunny said Candlemas was the traditional day for taking down the lights. I’ve usually done it around Ephiphany—Three Kings Day—on January 6, but decided this year that February was quite good enough. We have time tomorrow, February 1, so the kids and I will get the Christmas paraphernalia put away. But we will still keep up some lights. The white strand on the mantlepiece lasted all of last year.

I wonder what this year will bring. Despite the undercurrent of bleak this January there are bright points of light and some incredibly exciting things we’re anticipating. But it all goes by so quickly. Life is fleeting, and it seems like so much time is wasting away. Maybe that thought is why I’ve needed more light this January.

The kids and I have been working our way through Dante’s Divine Comedy this year alongside an invaluable resource, The 100 Days of Dante. This past Friday we read the 28th Canto of Purgatory. It seemed more than coincidence to me that on the 28th day of January, Keren’s heaven-day, we read the 28th Canto of Purgatory where Dante enters early paradise at the foot of Empyrion, the heavenly paradise. Since September we’ve taken the long road with him through the agonizing imagery of the Inferno, and the slow sanctification of Purgatory, so as we read Dante’s wonder as he stepped into the beautiful wood of earthly paradise, I felt like I had also stepped into the light. It’s amazing to me how God works like that. The sun shone brightly outside and my kids and I grasped a few lovely truths. I discovered that two friends of mine both have birthdays on the 28th and was thrilled to remember that life happened on the 28th, not just death. 

Miracles happen. Each day I can remember there will be resurrection. In the meantime, I will focus on the Life and the Light.