I don’t know that I’ve witnessed a more tangible sign of the joy resurrection brings than that exhibited by my son on the very rare occasion I have pulled his pajama shirt over his head in the past seven weeks—not right before bath time, right before we pull yet another pajama shirt over his ever-growing trunk; but on the few afternoons where we just cannot bring ourselves to remain stationary in our home for one more second.
His arms stretch as far as they will reach above his head. With eyes closed, a natural smile steadily widens across his face—a clear shift from stagnancy and mundanity and stillness to relief and hope and freedom occurs as the neck of the pajama shirt passes over his eczema-clad face. Something new is beginning; he can feel it deep within him, even at two and a half. We exchange his pajama shirt for a different shirt, a “normal” shirt. A shirt he’d wear if he was still going to school four days a week—learning from and being loved WELL by his teachers, playing with his friends.
And just like that--with the changing of his shirt comes the changing of his being.
From old to new. From death to life.
He remembers his true identity; he is a child of resurrection.
It is difficult for me to admit as a parent but a part of my child has died, has been cut off, is no longer. He will not ever again know "normal" as he did 52 days ago. 52 days. 52 days of tv and crafts and books and painting and potty training and snacks and hide and go seek and Facetime calls and car rides and wagon rides and being fed up with the same ol' thing day after day after...
All "in these four walls." All without human contact beyond that of his father and me.
24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
I often find myself wondering what he's thinking, how he must be feeling in the midst of all this. He's grown at a seemingly exponential rate in these 52 days--by height and weight and smarts and cutes. He is so different than he was; I don't really know how to explain it. All I know is these changes and developments are happening and his teachers aren't here to witness it and encourage him. His grandparents can't pull him close and tell him how proud they are or remind him how much they love him. His church families likely do not even register on his mental radar anymore, and that is unsettling for me as it will be in the care of our parishioners we will have to leave him once church services resume.
Will he begin to recognize them as the morning goes on?
Will he think we've betrayed him as we walk away?
These are the questions with which I now sit as we were alerted today that his school will be reopening in a couple of weeks. Things will be different there, too. They've told us so and also--thankfully so. They're doing all they can to make sure that children are protected and families feel assured about bringing their little ones back into the building, back into a revised version of what we all once knew as "normal." Even still, my mind goes down the nearest, darkest vortex of rabbit holes...
What will all of this newness be like for him?
What will it be like FOR ME?
Will he be safe?
Will he still be as protected from his food allergies as he was?
Will he still want to play?
Will he resemble some version of the child his care givers remember?
Will he be scared?
Will he be traumatized at the abrupt change of pace and location and people?
Will he begin to recognize the school and his teachers and his friends as the first morning back goes on, or will he recoil at them in misery until we return at the end of the day?
Will he think we've betrayed him as we drive away?
What I hate most is that for every one of these questions, my answer is, "I don't know."
There is no way of knowing.
And I--perhaps like some of you--do not do well with not knowing.
But what I am slowly beginning to know, hesitantly beginning wrap my mind around is the fact that (eventually, perhaps even in the near future) our existence will have to pick up speed and pick up the new way of life as daunting as that feels to utter (or write) aloud.
A time is approaching where I will have to take off my literal and metaphoric pajamas in exchange for "normal clothing." It is a risk on which my mind and heart are not so ready to embark, yet I ultimately know that living in fear of the unknown with no hope for anything but that way of life makes me as good as dead.
Yes, much like my son, parts of me have died in the past seven weeks. Parts of me are no longer parts of me because of all that we have been through--as individuals, families, communities, nations, and the world at large.
But I am not dead.
I must allow myself to unlearn some of the fear while proceeding forward with ample caution.
I must allow myself to unlearn the ways of death that have plagued this season of life and attempted to become my "forever normal".
And I must allow myself the grace to embody lessons my son has taught me in the midst of his all but rare yet impactful (maybe more so for me than for him) pajama resurrections:
Be hopeful for what's to come even if I don't know what it looks like yet.
Be receptive of the grace that comes to me in the midst of the unknown.
Proceed with faith and (perhaps tentative) joy for the steadfast presence of God with me and within me.
Proceed with assurance of and confidence in my true identity: a child of resurrection.
It will be a process.
It will not be linear.
There will be step ups and set backs in no particular order.
There will be difficult and draining decisions that need to be made.
There will be hurt feelings and hearts made heavy by the ebbs and flows of the unknown yet to come.
And there will also be moments that remind me (and us) that God is not in the business of leaving creation to its own devices--alone in our devastation, destitute in our mourning clothes, immobilized by our fears.
There WILL be life and life abundant.
Who knows what it will look like? No one.
Who knows what forms it will take? No one.
The important thing is that we KNOW LIFE ABUNDANT EXISTS AND IS COMING IN FULL as we wade through the murky depths of all that is unknown.
We know this because God does not leave things undone.
God does not leave the story to unfold in the shadows of death.
God does not leave, period.
And that, beloveds, is our blessed "knowing" in all that is unfamiliar.
May each of our equivalent 'pajama resurrections' be continuous; may they be swift; and may they be nothing short of renewing and restoring in ways that remind us to whom we belong, who we are, and for what we were made: living in ways that celebrate and share and seek to make a reality with and for all others God's sacred gift of life abundant.
With God's help, may it be so.
Deep Peace, Dear Ones,
Pastor Mary Kate
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