LIVING BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND EASTER
I still remember how, eighteen years ago, our August vacation was briefly delayed. Instead of heading to our beloved spot in Maine, we drove to Ontario, Canada, to spend several days with my failing, elderly father. We needed to share some of the pain and struggle that attacks us all between Christmas and Easter.
Christmas declares the worth and splendor of creation. Probably nothing affirms the sheer goodness of the created world as vividly as the incarnation, when the eternal Son became flesh. The Maine cabin along Nicatous Lake that my wife, Arbutus, and I share with another couple is one of our favorite symbols of creation’s splendor. Every visit relaxes and refreshes, and Arbutus and I always enjoy unusual delight together: blue sky with floating clouds, spectacular sunsets over the lake, soaring eagles, calling loons, dancing waves, and silent, peaceful nights. In fact, I originally conceived this piece early on a Sunday morning as the cool lake breezes wafted through our cabin windows, and I lay with my arms wrapped closely around my sleeping sweetheart.
Arbutus and I love this special spot in Maine and treasure it as a reminder of the goodness of life, so it is not surprising that we chose, eighteen years ago, to celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary at the cabin. All our children came—for good food, water skiing, berry picking, fishing, and great talks. Earthly life, the incarnation tells us, is very good indeed.
More amazing, Easter promises that things get even better. Human life does not vanish, disappearing forever after a few short decades. The risen Lord promises to return and raise us from the dead to sing and dance with him eternally. All that is good in this life will continue, however transformed. Revelation 21–22 declare that the best of human civilization—“the glory of the nations”—will be purged of evil and participate in the New Jerusalem. We delight in the glories of creation during our “three-score years and ten,” knowing that something even better awaits us after death.
After death. There’s the rub. Good Friday comes between Christmas and Easter. During this time, agony and struggle compete with joy and delight. When I wrote the original version of this piece, one of my young friends, Dwight Ozard, was struggling hard with unexpected cancer that threatened (and eventually ended) a young marriage and the plans and contributions of a gifted young leader. That same year when I called a friend in Ontario to ask if we could again stay in their basement guest room while we visited my dad, she sadly told me that her just-retired husband had advanced cancer. Just two months earlier, when we had stayed there on a previous visit, they had no inkling of a secret destroyer at work in her husband’s body.
Watching my dad descend into disability, weakness, and pain was a painful reminder that agony is a part of this life. After more than eighty-five years of good health, almost sixty years of marriage, and decades of fruitful ministry, my dad was slowly dying. He struggled for breath. He walked with difficulty, back bent way forward, leaning on his cane. One time when I visited him, he reluctantly reached the painful but necessary decision to accept the indignity of allowing the nursing staff to help him dress.
Every night brought anxiety. Mini heart attack after mini heart attack sparked the panic of gasping for breath. Water pills allegedly help, but the result was frequent trips to the bathroom and an occasional embarrassment.
Even at that point, Dad was a wonderful model of Christian integrity. He did not complain. He treated everyone, including the constant stream of nurses, aides, and doctors, with thoughtfulness and kindness. Constantly, he prayed for family and friends. Dad taught me so much about how to grow old as a faithful Christian.
But Dad was sad. He missed Mom, who had died three years earlier. Every night brought the fear of new attacks. Every day was just a series of slow shuffles to the toilet and three wheelchair rides to the dining room for food that my weakening dad did not really want.
Of course Dad knew that Easter was coming. He longed to go home, and all his children prayed that it would be soon. His faith was strong. He was eager to see Mother on the other shore, but the passage across the Jordan is difficult and frightening. Yes, the Good Shepherd is with us even in the valley of the shadow of death, but we were not created for the slow, creeping agony that my dying dad had to battle.
My bent, fragile father was for me the most vivid reminder that we live between Christmas and Easter, where pain and struggle enter even the most joyful, happy, Spirit-filled lives. Christians, too, must face this reality in all its awful ugliness.
But we do not let it overshadow Christmas and Easter. Life now is full of ecstasy and beauty. Gorgeous August sunsets abound, like the one slowly sinking into quiet Nicatous Lake as I finished the original version of this piece. Joy and wholeness, like that enjoyed by my dad for almost sixty years of happy marriage and seventy-five years of walking with Christ, are what the incarnation at Christmas is all about. And Easter promises that after a short moment of pain and, yes, terror, the glorious goodness continues in a new key forever.
Pass this on to your friends and invite them to get my free blog:https://ronsiderblog.substack.com.