When Following Jesus Looks Like an Empty Church. Even during Holy Week.

It’s Palm Sunday. 2021.

I’m sitting on the couch, my daughters snuggled in tight on either side of me, the computer sitting on the coffee table in front of us. The organ plays, and they begin to sing the first stanza of “All Glory Laud and Honor” with all their might. Feeling my eyes start to water, I stand up and walk toward the kitchen, looking for something to keep my mind off what I’m feeling inside. This isn’t what I want for today. I don’t want to watch this service. I don’t want to imagine Jesus’s procession in my mind. Not here. Not now. I want to ignore it and pretend today is just another day of the week.

This is not what church is supposed to be like. There is no celebration in my heart for this Jesus that is coming into the city. It doesn’t feel celebratory. It feels too far off. Jesus’ power feels empty today. Or maybe I’m just cranky.

A cramp forms in my stomach and I feel the physical pain of mourning. A physical sign of the angst my body feels over spending this holiest week at home, without my beloved church community. Sure, there will be a celebration of sorts on Easter Sunday, but without the other gatherings of this week, I almost don't even want to go. I don’t want a substitute Easter celebration. I want Easter like it’s always been. Gathered together, wearing our best dresses and our fanciest hats, singing “Alleluia” and “Christ is risen” and celebrating the truth that Jesus is victorious over death. 

Usually Holy Week feels sacred. The most sacred week of the year. The week when we remember the death so that the resurrection feels majestic. The resurrection has no teeth without the days that precede it. But this Holy Week feels different. This Holy Week feels redundant. Like it started more than a year ago and has been the longest Holy Week of my life. More than 365 days of remembering loss. Of feeling sadness and lament and heavy, heavy emotions. I am ready for the flowers and the new life and the resurrection. 

I have experienced resurrection in my own life. I know it’s real. I know it’s beautiful. And I don’t want to wait for it any longer.

And yet.

We have to. 

We have to continue to live in this place of lament. This last year has shown us the stark divide between God’s kingdom and our world. In the last year we have seen, firsthand, how the world is not what God intended when he created it so long ago.

We’ve seen almost three million deaths worldwide because of a virus that no one could control.

We’ve seen black men and women killed. Simply because they are black.

We’ve lost friends and relatives without being able to say goodbye. Unable to celebrate their lives with other people who have loved them.

We’ve seen mass shootings.

Nuclear bomb testing.

Nasty and emotional political divides.

Broken democracies.

Fights for power.

Children torn from parents.

And so much more.

It has been a year from hell. It has been a year like no other I can remember. Ever. In my life. It’s like in Harry Potter when Voldemort increasingly gains power until it feels like he will win and kill them all. It feels like evil will win this world and we will all be crushed to pieces. We know how the story ends, but right now, it feels like maybe we’re wrong.

Is this what it felt like on that very first Easter? The mourning, the uncertainty, the pain of loss? This sense of unbelief—Will we ever get through this? Will the church as we once knew it ever be quite the same? 

Church isn’t supposed to be virtual. Church is supposed to be the living, breathing, touchable hand of God. Church is supposed to be the place where we physically feel the touch of other humans, a promise that God is here, in the midst of us. Church is supposed to be the place where we feel the water dripped on our heads and taste the bread and wine on our tongues. Church is a sensual place; not a virtual one. And we haven’t had any of that in over a year. No wonder this Holy Week feels so dark.

The pastor starts his sermon with a question that pierces my heart and puts me back into my place: “Are we willing to make the sacrifices required in following Jesus?”

This is really the crux of our faith. Even today. Especially today. We have given up so much of our lives over the last year; not for our own safety, but for the safety of others. For those who are more vulnerable than we. We have sacrificed our own desire for “church” to protect the ones who need it most. We have laid down our own hearts for the sake of others’ lives. 

This question makes me wonder: What if church is more than a community of people gathered together to worship this Jesus that we all love? Maybe church is a community of people willing to sacrifice everything—even its own life together—for the sake of the world. As painful as it feels not being together, maybe this year Holy Week isn’t so much about gathering together to remember Jesus’s death. Maybe it’s about what our empty church represents instead.

We represent a Jesus who was willing to give up his entire life so that we would know how much God loves us. We represent a Jesus who was willing to come to the earth and live his entire life as an outcast so that each one of us could experience true love and eternal life. We represent a Jesus who everyone thought would break down the walls in this world, but instead was about showing us that greater things are still to come. We represent a Jesus that proclaims the Kingdom is here, and yet will never be fully here, all at the same time.

At the start of worship I thought to myself, “This is a Holy Week like no other.” But now I’m not quite sure. Now I think maybe this is a Holy Week like all the others that have come before. Maybe this Holy Week feels different because we really understand what Holy Week is all about. Maybe this Holy Week is about reminding us that death and resurrection will never be truly complete here in this life. Easter is always temporary—and permanent—all at the same time. That is the paradox of the Christian faith. 

And maybe this year we are experiencing that in a very real, and very tangible, way.

Celebrating Easter At Home

Here we are, a year after the pandemic was first declared, and we’re planning for another Holy Week and Easter at home. I never imagined this pandemic life without church would continue for an entire year and I’m deeply saddened by the thought of another Easter at home. I hope this is the last time in my life that I am separated from church in this way.

Easter is my favorite day of the entire year. Not necessarily because of the celebration, but because of the quiet that happens just before. Easter is all about mystery. About stillness and quietness. About the beauty of wonder.

Growing up, my Mom would wake us up SUPER early, bundle us up, and take us to our church’s outdoor sunrise service. I'll never forget the way we walked into the wooded sanctuary in the dark of the morning, the wonder I felt when I heard the Magnificat sung, and the majesty of the sun rising just as we were remembering our baptism and partaking in Holy Communion. Then we'd eat an amazing breakfast at church, prepared by my favorite people that were like grandparents to me. After breakfast, my family, and my best friend’s, would stay at church to get ready for the festival service. From the brass choir to the Gospel processional with banners and torches, this Easter service was a true celebration of the primary tenant of our faith—Christ is risen from the dead.

Every year, once I was in my Easter dress, I'd sneak into the dark and quiet Sanctuary where I was blown away by the smell of fresh flowers from the flower cross and the potted flowers around the altar. Even as a young child, I'd sit in the pew quietly, just for a moment or two alone. I needed those moments of quiet, those moments of mystery, so that I could fully appreciate the fanfare that was to come.

Easter was the defining moment of my faith as a child. Not because of the fanfare—but because of the stillness and the mystery that came before it. That quiet sanctuary filled with flowers remains my most vivid Easter memory, even now, as an adult.

I've had a hard time as a parent finding ways to recreate that same stillness and mystery for my own children, but last year offered us an opportunity to do just that. We woke them up SUPER early, bundled them up, and headed to the beach to watch the sunrise. And we discovered that even in the midst a pandemic, the stillness and mystery still happens. Christ is still risen.

Although Easter last year was one we will never forget, it didn’t have the same majesty that Easter should have. The quiet and stillness are most powerful when the fanfare comes next. The stillness feels like wandering until you’ve experienced the celebration that comes at the end.

Last year I put together some ideas for how to make Palm Sunday and Holy Week special when we can’t celebrate in-person together. The words I wrote then feel even more relevant today. Our church isn’t quite ready to worship together yet—even masked and outside—so it will be another Easter at home. Last year was a unique experience—one we worked hard to see the beauty in—but the reality is Easter was an incredibly hard day. Although we watched worship on our computer, it felt less like Easter than just another day in what was to become a very long pandemic life. We tried to celebrate at home, but the truth is I was a teary mess the entire day. I am feeling a deep sense of grief over another Easter without my church community, while at the same time remaining hopeful that by summer we can gather together in celebration once again.

This year, our church is offering drive-through Communion, and I am beyond excited to receive the body and blood of Jesus Christ for the first time in over a year. It has been far too long, and Easter will be momentous and special for Holy Communion alone. It will be a true remembrance that nothing can keep Jesus in the tomb.

Although the last thing we want to do is celebrate another Easter at home, we’ve learned that marking these occasions together can be special memories, and that God most certainly shows up. Here are some of our ideas for how to make your Easter Weekend special and meaningful, even if you—like us—won’t be able to gather with your church community or family and friends.

Holy Saturday

Decorate

Spend the morning decorating your house for Easter. We turn our mantel into an altar for Holy Week, and on Holy Saturday we will decorate it with twinkly lights and vases of flowers from our yard or neighborhood. I’m not sure what will have blooming here in New England—Easter seems early this year—but usually we can find a few daffodils and forsythia branches. Last year a friend bought me flowers for my Easter mantel and I may continue the tradition by purchasing a bouquet or two for myself. We’ll also hang our Alleluia banner—we used these letters—and the flower cross we created last year.

Easter Sunday

Watch the Sunrise

The best part of Easter Sunday last year was waking up early to watch the sun rise. The location that we chose wasn’t the best place to see the sun rising over the water, so we’ll scope out a different location this year. Beginning the tradition of waking my kids up early, when it’s still dark, and driving to a secluded location to watch the sunrise was perhaps the greatest gift of being forced to celebrate Easter at home. This is something we will continue for the rest of our years.

Read the Easter Story

I like to do this while we’re waiting for the sunrise because it is a great conversation starter while you’re sitting in the stillness. What do you think it felt like to discover the empty tomb? My favorite version of the story comes from Matthew 28. It beautifully captures the mix of emotions that the women felt when they discovered the empty tomb.

Dress Up

Everything feels a little more special if you wear your nicest clothes. When we go to celebratory affairs, we dress up. You may be at home on Easter morning, but treat yourself to a nice outfit for the day. It might help you feel a little better about having nowhere to go.

Participate in Online Worship

It seems like a no brainer to attend worship on Easter, in whatever way you can. But the reality is online worship is not something that feels celebratory, and it’s something we many times avoid. Communal worship is important on Easter though, even if we don’t feel like it, because it reminds us that our faith is bigger than the four walls around our house. Worshiping with your church community, even if it’s just through Zoom, can help us remember that God remains with us no matter what, and that this too shall pass.

Have an Egg Hunt

Last year David and I hid eggs for the girls, but this year we’re considering inviting a few friends over for a masked egg hunt. We know enough about the virus this year to know it’s likely not going to pass through surfaces, and you can have hand sanitizer available for everyone to use before and after the hunt. If you take precautions in filling eggs and limit the hiding so that only one person is touching them, you can be fairly confident that you’re having a safe and fun event. We are still limited in MA as to how many people we can have gather in our yard, but even inviting one family over can make the day a little more special.

Make something special for dinner

Sharing special meals is one way we mark special days on our calendar. Easter is a time to make something you wouldn’t normally fix on an ordinary weeknight. I love this recipe for Lamb Chops or this one for Baked Ham, served with crispy potatoes and creamed greens. Or if you’re vegetarian, this Lemony Asparagus Risotto looks delicious, as does this Chickpea Salad and this Spring Panzanella. And don’t forget the deviled eggs!

However you celebrate Easter this year, may you find peace and beauty in the stillness and mystery of the day.

Remembering Elaine on International Women's Day

Have you ever had someone in your life who made an impact in a single moment? 

Earlier this year, my church community lost a dear woman who transformed my life in a single moment. And I’m not even sure she knew it before she died.

I didn’t know her well—we’ve only been attending the church for two years now, one of which has been mostly virtual. I don’t know if she was able to participate in church during this time of virtual worship or not, but I do know that in the nine months that we worshipped with her in person, she made a lasting impact on me.

She was an artist. And she loved my children. Every Sunday she would make a point to stop by and say hello. To tell me how beautiful they were, and to share with me how precious this time with them is.

She saw me crying in worship once. I do that often—especially on days when there’s some talk about answering God’s call. I remember that service quite vividly. I was feeling a little torn between wanting to live this homeschooling life that I feel very called to and wanting to make a very big difference in the world—also something that I feel very called to. 

We were singing “Will You Come and Follow Me” when the tears fell so hard and fast on my face that I couldn’t even sing the words aloud. I tried to hide it, but sweet Elaine, she saw. After worship that day, she came up to me during coffee hour, placed a gentle hand on my arm, and in her sweet 89-year-old voice said, “I felt it too. Sometimes God just shows up in church like that. Everything falls together and I feel the Holy Spirit like I feel the wind blow in my hair.”

And then I hugged her. And the tears started once again. I felt seen—not only by Elaine, but by God. In that moment, she reminded me that I’m not alone in whatever it is I’m going through. In that moment, she saw me, in a way that I hadn’t felt seen since I first moved to Massachusetts several years before. In that moment, she was the living, breathing, hand of God that I needed to feel wrapped around me. 

Now that sweet old lady has left this world. She is resting firmly in God’s presence and has left us all behind, and her body will one day return to dust. But she will forever remain in my heart.

Elaine, Beloved Child of God, may you rest in peace my friend. I will miss you. Until we meet again.

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One Year Ago: A Lego Club Church

One year ago today, we went to Lego Club at the Library. My 5-year-old had been talking nonstop about Legos, and I didn’t want them in the house. I wanted to nurture her interests though, so I compromised and agreed to go to the weekly Lego club down the street. “Club” is really a misnomer—they just pulled disorganized boxes of Legos out and let the kids go to town.

The kid sitting next to us had a snotty nose and I can remember being totally grossed out. Even pre-covid, I never understood why parents would take their kids out in public with snot hanging from their nose. Just keep your snotty kids home please! The rest of us don’t want to have to wipe up snot for the next week. It’s really just common courtesy to other parents, ya know? 

I moved my kids to the end of the table and sat next to the snotty-nosed kid. Maybe that way my kids wouldn’t end up snotty nosed. If one of us was going to get sick, I’d rather it be me. In my annoyance, I almost missed the creation that was taking shape before me. 

“What are you making?” I asked my oldest, who had just turned 8. 

“Church,” she replied. “See the organ? And that’s Mr Ted. And over here is Pastor Anne. She’s doing Communion. I have to make the pews and the people next.”

By the time she was done, it looked just like the Sanctuary we had learned to call home. All the way down to the Christ candle and the people in the pews.

This church was fairly new to us, we found it just a year before. Although the congregation was largely made up of people much older than us, it felt like home from the moment we first walked in. It was a place that welcomed us with open arms, even if we were the only family with small kids in the pews on more Sundays than not. We could truly come as we were and be loved and accepted.

Little did we know that we wouldn’t set foot in that Sanctuary the rest of the year. Little did we know that in six months, our beloved pastor would retire and we wouldn’t get to hug her neck before saying goodbye. Little did we know we’d already had Holy Communion for the last time in who knows how long. Little did I know this tiny little Lego Sanctuary would speak such loud volumes to me now.

I snapped a picture and sent it to my husband, and then to our pastor, impressed with my kid’s desire to build a Sanctuary from Legos.

When our time was up, we cleaned up the Legos, left the room and went the bathroom to wash our hands. Then we went home, fairly certain that none of us caught some terrible disease. 

I wish I had snuck that Lego Sanctuary out of the library that day. I wish I had known how special that memory would become. It was the first of many lasts for a very long time. 

This post was written in response to 10 Things To Tell You Podcast Episode 106: 10 Questions to Mark One Year of the Pandemic. What was your life like in early 2020?

Ash Wednesday: 2021

I wasn’t happy about it. 

If it weren’t for A asking me what we were going to do for Ash Wednesday, I probably would have ignored it. Pretended it was just another day. Neglected to do anything, simply because I couldn’t have it the way I wanted. It would have been a terrible decision, and one that I would have regretted, but it would have been the easy one. Instead, I did what I felt obligated to do—I put this worship guide out into the world—it was only right that we actually used it.

I also knew if we did nothing, my girls would grow up and always remember the year we didn’t do Ash Wednesday. It would be one more thing the pandemic took away.

So when we finished eating dinner, I quietly cleared the dinner dishes and lit all the candles I could find. We turned down the lights and sang a version of Create in Me that will forever be a favorite (thanks John Tirro). I asked if anyone wanted to read from the Bible, and A jumped at the chance. I always get a little teary when I hear her read from Scripture. There’s something about hearing God’s Word from a child that gives me a new perspective on whatever is being read.

After she read from Joel, we talked about what it means to confess our sins and to return to the Lord. This is always hard for the girls. For all of us really. None of us really want to admit when we’ve been bad. We want people to love us, and if we’ve been bad, that might not be so. We want to be right. We don’t want to think about the people we’ve hurt; or the ones that have hurt us—lack of forgiveness is a sin too. 

We talked about how God is a merciful God. Slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. And that because of that, we can feel free to confess our sins to him and know that we will be forgiven. We had a few moments of quiet as we each contemplated what to write on the blank page before us. One looked at me with tears in her eyes, so I took her to the next room and we whispered about some of the things she’s done over the last few days that might not have been the best behavior. It reminded me that sometimes it’s hard to think about what we need to confess. We get in our routine and we don’t even realize how we have turned away from God, or the need to repent—to turn back.

We folded our pieces of paper full of confessions and threw them into a bowl, praying that God would create in us clean hearts and renew right spirits within us. We lit a match and threw it in. One after another, the pieces of paper caught fire and we watched as they burned. When the smoke began to rise we feared the smoke alarm going off, so we moved the bowl to the stove and turned the vent fan on. “But I want to watch!” they cried. So we moved the stool and gathered around our bowl of sins, and watched as we lit match after match until they were finally all burned.

There’s something almost cathartic about watching your sins burn. The flames lick the edge of the bowl, the colors change from red to orange to blue and back to orange again. The paper that was once white is now black and ashy. “That looks so cool,” the littlest one said. “I love watching all the colors.”

It reminded me of a time at church camp when I was a teen. The confessing of sins and the burning of them in the courtyard outside our dorms. I don’t remember the confessions I made, but I remember how I felt when I watched them go up in flames. I remember the tears as I apologized to God for the things I had done. And I remember the way my heart felt lighter after the absolution had been proclaimed. 

After they were all gone, we moved the bowl over and let them cool. We read more Scripture, talked about what we might do during Lent to turn ourselves back towards God. And then, in the holiest of moments, the baby of the family—my tiny 6-year-old—she turned those burned sins into ashes with her hands. As she mixed them with olive oil and her fingers turned black, she took on the role of the one who reminds us. I put my finger in the bowl, turned towards her and made the mark of the cross on her forehead as I said “remember you are dust ... and to dust you shall return.”

She took great pride in reminding us all. She dipped a finger in, pulled it out, raised it up to a forehead, and in her small, quiet, 6-year-old voice, “remember you are dust....and to dust you shall return.”

For me.

For him.

For her sister.

It was in that last tender moment between sisters that I most strongly felt the presence of God among us. It was in that moment that tonight became most holy. In that moment, God took all my sorrow of being away from my beloved church community and filled my heart with a deep appreciation for this tender family worship experience we shared around the same counter we had just eaten dinner on. 

We washed her hands, then gathered in a circle to say the Lord’s Prayer together. And as I heard their little voices say the words louder and clearer than they’ve ever said them in church, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this will be an Ash Wednesday we will always remember.

Not because of what it lacked, but because of how God showed up. 

Observing Ash Wednesday at Home

“There will be two virtual Ash Wednesday services, but no imposition of ashes.”

My heart sank as I read the message in my inbox. How can we have an Ash Wednesday service without the imposition of ashes? 

This feels like the hardest loss of them all. 

We did Maundy Thursday at home. We read the story of the Last Supper and drew pictures of Jesus. We washed feet and shared bread and wine. We prayed the Lord’s Prayer and asked for Your will to be done.

Then we did Good Friday at home. We turned off the lights and stripped our mantel and remembered the darkness and sadness of the day.

We celebrated Holy Saturday—planting flowers, cleaning the house, and decorating the mantel for the celebration to come.

And we cried our way through Easter Sunday. We woke up in the dark to drive to the beach to wash the sun rise above the ocean. We talked about the beauty and stillness of that morning. The majesty before us. The hope in the midst of our darkness.

We dressed up for church and sat around our coffee table and heard the story of that first Easter morn. We had scavenger hunts in our backyard and pulled out all our best ideas to make Easter a day full of happy memories.

Summer came and went.

We had a small Thanksgiving celebration and gave thanks for the good in the midst of the bad.

We had Christmas Eve snack dinner and sang Christmas carols around candles and made a Holy Communion table of our own. 

And now here we are … Ash Wednesday less than two weeks away … and we’re finding ourselves having to figure out how to do this on our own too.

It is painful for me to think about observing Ash Wednesday at home, away from my beloved Church Community. Ash Wednesday, more than any other worship service, is centered on confession and public absolution. In a normal year, we’d worship in the Sanctuary, singing together, hearing scripture together, praying together—all things that we’ve been able to do together virtually thanks to Zoom. But in a normal year, we would also walk to the altar together to share Holy Communion and remember the promise that Christ has gone before us. Remember his command to remember Him as we eat and drink this bread and wine. Later in the service, we would walk up to that very same altar and receive ashes on our forehead and be reminded that we are dust … and to dust we shall return. 

In a year like this one, that reminder that we will all return to dust is so important. In a year where we’ve seen so many challenges, so much strife, so much isolation and so much death, it’s almost a breath of fresh air to remember that we all, eventually, return to dust. But not being able to do that in the presence of other believers is heart-wrenching.

So I did what we’ve all done so many times over the last eleven months. I found my resolve and dug into my faith and put my creative juices to work. I put together a Family Worship to guide us in observing Ash Wednesday at home. It’s designed to be short and intimate and is adaptable for your family, whether you are 0 or 99+.

Maybe your church community has found a creative and safe way to hold a traditional Ash Wednesday service. Or maybe your church will have a quiet, pensive virtual service that will include a time of confession and absolution, but no imposition of ashes. Or maybe you just don’t have the energy for either of those.

Wherever you are, I feel you, friend. I’m holding you close as we embark on this weird Lenten journey together. I gift you the Ash Wednesday Family Service we will use in our home. Wherever you are, I hope this Family Service is a blessing to you. 

remember you are dust …. and to dust you shall return

My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me? (transcript of recording)

As I write this, we’re on the third day of cold, rainy, dreary weather. As if it’s not enough to have the world on lockdown, now I can’t even enjoy the yard and woods that surround my house. More than once over the last week have I thought these same words ... “​My God, my God, why have you forsaken me​?”

Why does it feel like the world is caving in?

Why don’t you do something to stop it?

Why can’t you use your powers to push evil away?

Why can’t you just give us a few weeks of sunshine to help us pull through this awful, unbelievable time we’re leaving in?

As I reflect on my own situation, as I reflect on this weird time we find ourselves living right now, I’m drawn to the image of Mary at the foot of the cross. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to see your son, dying in your midst, and knowing there was absolutely ​nothing​ you could do to prevent it, or to even make it a little more palatable?

I think about those overwhelmed healthcare workers on the front lines, in overwhelmed hospitals, and the gut-wrenching decisions they are having to make. The ones who have to sit by and watch people die, knowing there’s nothing they can do to ease their pain, and the pain of those who love them.

Maybe you, like me, have had those times over the last few weeks where you’ve just felt helpless. I’ve always understood living out faith as a call to action ... a call to ​DO​ something to make life easier for those who find themselves in tough places. A call to ​be present ​with those who find themselves struggling. And yet here we are, in a time where the call to action is “Don’t go do anything. Don’t be present with anyone but your immediate family. Just stay home.”

It’s no wonder that we may be feeling that God is forsaking us in this strange time. It feels like everything we’ve ever learned about how to live out our faith is being challenged right now. Like Jesus on the cross, we’re wondering why God doesn’t just reach out and DO something. Why doesn’t good prevail over evil?

Isn’t that the real struggle with Good Friday? It’s a truly painful day. A day when we see this Jesus that we have grown to know and love hanging on a cross, because of nothing other than his Goodness. A day when we get a glimpse of his own inner struggle, his own pain, his own anger that evil wins this match.

Of course, we know the end to the story - we know that Good prevails. That God prevails. We know God does reach out and act - and that moment is even more glorious than the one that we long for.

And because I know the end of the story, I can feel comforted by the fact that even Jesus wondered why he had been forsaken. I can feel comforted by his pain and uncertainty. Comforted by his willingness to die - alone - on the cross, so that he had a full and complete experience of what it means to be truly human.

On this Good Friday like no other we’ve lived before, Jesus is not simply present with us, but he is here, living it with us. Today, as we remember him dying on the cross, as we remember his crying out to God, may we feel comforted in our own cries of mourning and anger.

My God, My God, WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?!

My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?

You can find the transcript of this recording here.

through the eyes of mary

I can’t help but think about how hard it was to be Mary during Jesus’ last days. Here was her baby boy, all grown up, being ridiculed and accused. Bruised, beaten, and hung on a cross. What was she thinking as she watched it happen?

Maybe she was remembering when the angel appeared to tell her she was with child. Remembering the fights she had with her family and with Joseph when she revealed the news. Thinking about all they had been through to have this child – this Son of God – the Messiah.

Or perhaps she was thinking about that special night when Jesus was born. The first time she held him in her arms. That long journey she and Joseph took while she was nine months pregnant. Searching for a safe place to give birth.

Maybe she was replaying the many miracles she had seen him perform. Thinking of all the lives he had changed during his three years of ministry.

She had to watch from afar as her oldest child – her beloved – breathed his last breath. She would never embrace him again. Never again see him laugh. She couldn’t even hold his hand as he died.

How did she survive it? Was she angry at God? Confused? Or did she know all along how it would end? How did she stop herself from trying to get him off the cross?

I imagine it was a little bit like this:

Mary’s faith has always astounded me. Her complete willingness to be God’s servant. To do whatever God asks of her. She willingly carried his child even though it was a major inconvenience to both her and Joseph. She, like any mother, loved Jesus more than she ever imagined. She watched him grow up. She helped him grow up.

And now … to watch him die on a cross …

She did it all … willingly … because she believed. She believed God was up to something amazing. She trusted in his promises.

My prayer these next few days is this: As I remember Jesus’ last days in preparation for the Easter celebration, may I be like Mary. May I be God’s willing servant – no matter how inconvenienced I might be. And may I always remember God’s promise to be faithful, no matter how dire the circumstances might seem.

This post was originally published at Bibledude.net.

Remembering Holy Week at Home

Palm Sunday is behind us and the Holy Triduum is before us. As we turn our eyes from the procession of the King to his final meal with the Disciples, we begin to think about how we can prepare our homes for Family Worship in a way we may have never done before.

Feeling overwhelmed and not sure where to start? I feel you. But don’t. Don’t allow yourself to feel anxious over making this week perfect. We have enough on our plates right now. Allow yourself to grieve the loss of your community during this very holy time and simply promise to spend a few minutes together as a family each day. That alone can bring a depth to this week that you may have never experienced before. Here are some simple ideas that I hope will bring you inspiration and a feeling of empowerment over this very special week.

Create a Family Altar

This can - and should - be simple. Use what you have around the house. We hung our palm crosses from Sunday on a piece of yarn and hung it from our mantel. On the mantel, we removed the decorations that are usually there and added a candle, a small vase of forsythia flowers, a wooden cross that we had on a bookshelf, and a Bible. If you don’t have a cross of some sort, draw one on a piece of paper. If you don’t have a mantel, use a coffee table, or a side table, or a corner of your kitchen counter or dining table. Don’t overthink it - you want your altar to be in the space where you will gather as a family over the week’s activities.

Maundy Thursday

Eat Dinner Together

Maundy Thursday is all about Jesus’ last meal with his Disciples. Remember that story by eating dinner together. It doesn’t matter what you eat, just set apart the time to share a meal with one another, and allow no interruptions. I suggest you keep the meal simple, so that you have as little cleanup as possible. Our church sent out a wonderful Family Worship liturgy that we will use, but you don’t have to use any liturgy at all. As you’re eating dinner, read the story from John 13:1-17 and 31b-35, where Jesus washes the feet of his Disciples and foreshadows his betrayal.

Family Foot Washing

Continue your remembrance of Jesus’ last meal with a family foot washing. All you need is a big bowl of warm water and a dry towel. As the members of your family finish their meal, gently go to where they are seated and wash their feet. My guess is by the time you finish washing their feet, someone will volunteer to do yours as well!

Strip your Altar

After you’ve finished your meal and the washing of feet, do the work of clearing off the table and cleaning up together. Remind your children - especially if they are younger - that this is the day that begins our journey to the cross and the empty tomb and invite everyone to gather around your Family Altar. Ask one family member to read Psalm 22 out loud, or you can read it out loud and invite them to strip your altar. As the Psalm is being read, gently remove everything from the altar one at a time, and bring it to a place in your house where it will be out of sight. You’ll want to keep it close though, so you can use it again for Easter Sunday! When your altar is empty, and the Psalm is over, say the Lord’s Prayer together and remain in silence for just a minute or two.

Good Friday

This can be a hard day for your youngest or most sensitive children. One of my favorite ways of remembering Good Friday with my littles is by reading The Tale of Three Trees together. Sit around your empty altar as you read the book - or you can find a video of the story here. After the story, allow time for conversation, and then practice intentional silence together. Remember - just one moment of silence can be hard for tinies, so don’t push them to be silent for too long! Finish your remembrance of the death of Jesus by singing the old hymn Were You There together.

Earlier this weekend, a dear friend of mine posted a picture of her family altar saying, “It’s going to be the Holy Week I always wanted but never had the time to implement.” My prayer for us all this Holy Week is that we seize the opportunity to just be present for the final days of Jesus’ life. Many blessings to you and your family as you embark on the journey together.

Artwork by Pieter Bruegel the Elder.