Good Grief

Meat my failure.  

Hello my Friend.

How are you?  You said the weather was nice when you texted and I wanted you to know we are coming dangerously close to cracking the 60 degree barrier.  I might not be swimming in the morning like you are but I am flirting with the idea of going outside without a jacket which is almost as impressive.

We haven’t debriefed from Easter yet.  I know it was a week ago and the world has moved onto other things but I’m having trouble getting past the trauma and thought perhaps we could go over it together.  I want to move on to other events such as creating a protocol for when your teenage daughters come in the door sobbing because of an Avengers movie.  What would Jesus do anyway? 

The whole day was poignant.  I’m not sure I’ve used that word before, it means to evoke a keen sense of sadness.  I came to consciousness and the blanket over my subconscious dissolved like an Alka-Seltzer in boiling water.  Pulling my pillow over my head to replace the weight of sleep, I think I groaned as the reality of grief rolled over my mind.  With a sense of dread that only grief affords, I took stock of my psyche and found a wound hanging out somewhere near the pit of my stomach and examined it.

Death: inescapable, irreversible, and implacable.    

Staring straight at the hurt, I realized as I have every morning that it wasn’t going anywhere so I might as well get out of bed and move on to the next thing.  Which this morning meant making tea quietly in the kitchen and decorating an Easter table before the children woke up.  Slipping outside to gather flowers for my vase, the beauty of the morning didn’t even register.  I was going through the motions of celebration without any of the joy.  Rousting chocolate from several hiding places, I continued with my display.

Moving onto breakfast next I prepped the meal and waited for my monsters to tromp downstairs.  Tea was poured, prayers were said and before I realized it I was being told to “go sit down while we clean the kitchen.”  I couldn’t tell you much about the afternoon.  Did we go for a walk?  The next thing that registered in my mind was the need to start making supper.   

This is where things started to go wrong.  No.  That’s not true.  They went wrong days before when I staggered to the store with a shopping list and no idea of what meat to buy for Easter dinner.  I walked to the back of the store and stared at the ginormous display of hams and assorted cow parts.  Nothing was registering and I was entirely unable to figure out what to buy for dinner.  My phone made constant noise as questions were texted across continents, familial concern mixing with motivation and tenderness as funeral preparations took shape. I didn’t care what I ate for dinner which is why I made the deadly mistake of purchasing a marinated roast.  

In fairness it had an orange sticker, which made me think, “this must be a deal and the answer to all my problems.”  I grabbed it, threw it in the cart and went to  stare at cheese for a while.  Had I been in my right mind, I might have seen a Southwest Marinade label that would have tipped me off to the colossal mistake I was making.  As it was, I missed the ominous soundtrack as the camera panned mid frame on my roast like an Alien hiding in the wreckage of Sigourney’s ship.  It wasn’t going to end well. 

Oblivious to foreshadowing I started dinner with high hopes.  The roast went in the oven and vegetables were prepped.  Minor distractions kept me busy until, ahead of schedule I removed the roast to rest and prepped the gravy.  It was when I tasted the gravy that I realized my mistake. The roast had been marinated in what could only have been called a caustic mix of nastiness.  You know those demented food shows where 3 stooges venture off and eat spicy food that is essentially inedible?  Well one of those guys escaped and got his hands on the roast and in an attempt to prove his manhood, ruined it with flavorless heat.  To make matters worse, in an effort to cover his tracks, he placed an orange sticker on the roast and because I’m a frugal moron he ruined my Easter dinner.    

I cut a piece off the roast to confirm my worst fears.  Entirely inedible.  WHO SELLS FOOD LIKE THIS?  I was so upset I sat on my kitchen floor with a cup of tea waiting for the will to live to return.  “Mummy?  Whatcha doin?”  it was a teen, checking in on me.  “A lot.”  I retorted.  “I’ve managed to ruin dinner and am figuring out what to do next.”  Reassurances of “it can’t be that bad,” were soon replaced by abject horror they tasted the Scofield sample.  My middle child offered to find me a glass of wine.  The eldest, after tasting the roast, offered to drink it.  “Chicken!” I shouted.  The girls looked at me nervously.  “Don’t stand there, someone go get chicken breasts from the deep freeze.”  “With Yorkshire pudding?” was the quizzical reply.  “Of course with Yorkshire pudding because why not.”  “What do we do for gravy?” someone asked.  “Make more,” I replied though I was out of stock. 

What followed was one of the most bizarre meal preparations my household has experienced.  My children, in some inexplicable silent form of moral support, sat in the kitchen, chatted and helped me through the preparation of the entire second dinner. By the time we were done we had a bizarre meal of chicken, with peculiar white sauce/gravy, Yorkshire pudding and roast veggies.  All the time I was aware I was making family history, an Easter that would go down in the books as “do you remember the Easter mum bought that roast?’  My grief, inability and lack were creating something kind of amazing: a moment of love, grace and redemption.  If redemption can be thought of cooking a chicken dinner when you want to hide under the table and cry.  

Which got me to thinking about Easter…

The disciples numb with grief heading out to the tomb.  Their amazement to find the end was really not an end at all: there was hope that was divinely given when all human ability failed.  

So I wanted to encourage you, if you like me, were viewing life through tears of grief this week.  That the Lord might cause you to know that though you are at the end of yourself, He has no end.  His goodness doesn’t cease, his love never fails and death does not get the last word. 

I'm praying for you this week,

xoxKaren