Easter

We went to Ohio for Easter.  Ohio is ahead of Minnesota in terms of the coming of spring, but it is behind central Illinois.  This became particularly apparent when we arrived home on April 22, and I saw how far my flower beds had progressed in the two weeks I had been away and how they had missed me.

Of course, Ohio holds a treasure far beyond spring flowers.  Ohio holds a baby boy who, on Tuesday, reached the ripe old age of four months.  Soft blond hair, bright blue eyes, full of grins and giggles, he is a delight.  If only we could always keep our beloved children as safe as we can when they are babies, held close to our chests, their dear little heads perspiring softly in the curve beneath our chins.  Is there any joy in life greater than the soft dependance of a baby's body as it sinks heavy and limp in sleep against your heart?

On Good Friday, we were driving to Alistair Begg's church, Parkside Bainbridge.  We were on one of those seventy-something highways that run around and through Cleveland.  The light waned in early evening, as gray rain fell insistently.  A wave passed through my body and I forgot where I was, listening to the rumble of the tires on asphalt, suddenly swept back to some distant autumn in the northeast, driving to drop people off at college, cold and sad.  I had to shake myself and struggle to remember.  No, this is spring.  Easter.  Good Friday.  Ohio.  I have a grandson.  I am a grandmother.

I was going to write about righteousness, what righteousness is and why we need it.  Instead, I sit here and remember Easter in Ohio, and a little baby boy who sat up alert and attentive in an Easter morning church service, when the trumpets began to play.  He turned his soft, squishy face toward the music like a sunflower turning toward the sun, his body tense with excitement.

Jesus died to make us righteous, and rose again, the first one to break free from the bonds of sin.  Our little baby doesn't know about these things.  He only knows about drinking milk, turning his orange sphere of circles in his hands, kicking and splashing in his bath, laughing when we play peek-a-boo or pretend to sneeze, and crying when someone puts him down for a nap or pulls a shirt over his head.  He doesn't know he is plagued with the natural selfishness of humanity, or that he needs a Savior, or that the God of the Universe humbled Himself to death on his behalf.

He doesn't know, but I pray he will learn, and believe, and find redemption, freedom and joy in Christ.