A Hat that Hurts

Holy Week is drawing to a close. My devotions this Lenten season have surely been lacking some of the fervor of previous years. I was unable to partake in our church’s Wednesday night activities, including their dessert competition. It wasn’t until the last two days that I actually put up some Easter decorations in the house. Although many people wonder why I bother with eggs and bunnies on our mantle, I needed to see them as a key part of my home. Easter is definitely one of my favorite holidays. It sits up there right with Christmas and lacks much of the hustle and bustle filling up those December days. The Holden evening service, the midweek Lent service at my home church, ends the day with a sense of peace lacking just four months earlier. Plus, Christmas wouldn’t be worth its weight in candy canes if Easter weren’t also part of the Christian year. It doesn’t matter to the same significance that Jesus was born if he also didn’t later die for our sins.

I’m proud of the Biblical knowledge already possessed by my three-year-old grandson. He knows people made Jesus wear a hat that hurt and a lady loved him so much that she put perfume on his head and dried his feet with her hair. He also knows Jesus loves him. That’s the simple faith that Jesus wanted us all to know.

That same love is what makes my pain so much easier to handle. When I pray, I know that Jesus knew what pain was all about. He knew what it was like to feel friendless and alone. When I sit with a hurting back and a head throbbing away, I remember that Jesus felt pain when he wore that hat that hurt.

I love Easter baskets with that neon grass that can be found throughout the house for the next eight months. I love those plastic eggs that we still find hidden away in corners from days of Stephanie searching away. I adore the taste of chocolate or pop when it was given up for the Lenten season. Easter Sunday brings the joys of all those self-imposed sacrifices. I love baskets overflowing with presents even when I realize my narcissistic tendencies and me-me-me attitude don’t fit the true meaning of Easter. I stuff many a gift in baskets and love to see what Bob or Stephanie have supplied for me. Easter is not the time for one fancy gift, but the time and effort spent on picking out special things for loved ones’ baskets, letting the gifts flow over just like the love from our Lord.

This year, no Honey Baked Ham will be served at our house. It’s weird to order a small ham anyhow since just Bob and I (and Einstein) will be gobbling up the meal. I was not about to stand in a line that snaked around the building’s corner while a cold rain tried to dampen shoppers’ spirits. I’ll be brave and hit our local grocery store tomorrow instead.

I have always loved Easter and the way my momma would jump as she was startled by the sound of trumpets at our church service. I love to ponder how many people are joining me singing, “Jesus Christ is risen today.” How many little girls have white shoes to dash around in search of spring eggs? There can’t be a better feeling.

This year, the resurrection means even more to me. I can face my pain and not feel like it lessens my worth. Those words are brought to you after three and a half weeks at Mayo. I can loudly pray, asking God how much longer for the spasms. I can then say, “Thanks God” for being right there with me all the way.”

Happy Easter everyone! May all your eggs have hidden treasures of the unconditional love of family, friends and God.

Advantage of Having Chronic Pain:

• You better understand that you are not alone since Jesus is sitting right beside you wearing a hat that hurts.