Easter

So.  It is Easter evening, and the patterns of golden light on the wall are growing amber.  I have been with friends off and on all weekend, loving people who fuss over me and ask questions that make me think and who keep me moving in the direction of my dreams.  How did I get here, among them?  

The challenge in the message today at Journey is to live the Resurrection.  To honor the human being in everyone, including myself, get up from my tomb, and live the glory of God.  Put down the bag of rocks on my back that contains a grudge against my mom, judgment, who I think I am, where I like to keep Christ, excuses for not making art, wasted time and money, guilt used to justify self-deprecation and stuck-ness, the woulda-shoulda-whatifs that people my past, and most interestingly, my efforts to give my life and choices away to someone (or something) for safekeeping when they are too demanding.  If I leave the bag, what will I put things in?  Who will find it?  I find this embarrassing, to be without baggage.  It's like wearing a swimsuit indoors; it isn't me to travel with nothing heavy hanging on me.  But look at my posture!  And the smile on my face?

Is this taking control of my life, this living the Resurrection, the gift of seeing life beyond death?  Kierkegaard's explanation of those who drive and those who are driven around seems to apply.  I don't need to drive anyone around (except maybe my boys, and even that is limited to the physical act more often than not), but I must drive myself.  I always allowed others to drive me, suffering fairly constantly from car sickness, longingly looking out the window, until very recently when I decided I wanted to drive my own car.  A small, low-maintenance one. And I'm finally happy.  And now that I look at it, I anxiously realize there's no room for my bag of rocks when there are people in the car.

The rocks will have to go.  

Shalom.