I remember how I felt, a few short weeks ago…standing close beside my husband, flanked by wiggling, giggling, dancing children and friends, grinning from ear to ear, a surge of joy pressing against my ribs, tears in my eyes.
It rang from all corners, filling the spacious room, vibrating with the hundreds of voices proclaiming it.
Christ is Risen.
How easy is it, a few weeks later, to remember that it’s still Easter? To remember that Easter was (and is) not a day, but a totally new reality? How quickly did I forget to proclaim it every day in my heart, with my voice, in my actions and in my relationships?
Christ is Risen, Indeed.
Looking backward to the last week of Lent, to the fatigue I felt, to the last post I made in this space (about meatless meals), I realize that somehow my alleluia faded back into a Lenten resignation…that feeling of searching through a desert for sustenance while waiting for the joy that will I expect will eventually arrive.
In allowing this to happen, in giving up my alleluia, I somehow also lost my voice here- surrendered it to the flood of daily worries and details and tasks that can overwhelm even the calmest, most organized, most cheerful mother of young children.
This is my fault. My fault. My most grievous fault.
I’ve forgotten to be grateful.
The thing about grateful is that it isn’t how I feel. I don’t feel grateful automatically when I wake up, still tired from the day before, hearing someone in a nearby room yelling, “MAMAAAA!” I think of the hundreds of things before me, and I feel burdened, and the last thing I want to say is, “Thank you.”
Grateful is a decision I have to make- not once each morning, but twenty, fifty, a hundred times each day. Grateful for the bickering over which blessing we’ll say at breakfast. Grateful for constant stream of child-questions that pelt the back of my head in the car. Grateful for the books scattered all over the floor in most of the rooms of our small house. Grateful for poopy diapers, even, and the chance to wash them out, over and over again and dry them on the line.
Instead of choosing grateful, I’ve been choosing to feel sorry for myself, running my awareness over and over the inevitable places I feel want or lack or need.
I choose grateful.
And with that choice, I am sure I’ll find my voice again.