Easter People

A late April evening; some years ago

I’m struck by the absurdity of it all tonight.

I wipe down kitchen cabinets and scrub the oven door after the kids are in bed. I see the bottom of the oven and decide that it, too, should be cleaned. Probably tonight, because why not? I try to wrangle out the pieces, but soon realize they are screwed into the bottom. The trip to the garage to find a screwdriver is enough to deter me, though I’m left thinking about what this says about my housekeeping– that I didn’t know I needed a screwdriver to properly take it apart to clean.

I sigh and decide that maybe what I really need is an early bedtime. I glance at the kitchen island to see if there’s anything easy that’s left to put away, and I toss Easter chocolates into the pantry bowl. Suddenly, it dawns on me that we never celebrated Easter as a family. We had the big extended family meal and ate chocolate, but we never celebrated the sweetness of a resurrected Savior. It came and went, much like Lucas has the last six weeks– quick visits home in between work trips.

As I make my way down the hallway, I step on the too-perfectly-placed-stereotypical Lego piece. The last thing I see in our living room before I shut the lights off are Christmas decorations that have most definitely overstayed their welcome.

It’s absurd. Forgotten Christmas decorations still up in April laughing at the forgotten Easter celebrations. Deep cleaning an oven when I should be folding laundry, picking up toys, making freezer meals, planning a birthday party, scrubbing a toilet, buying diapers, setting up a crib– truly, anything would be more productive than the oven that’s never been unscrewed in the six years we’ve lived here.

“Joy to the World,” one decoration reads. But joy feels wispy and whimsical, something most certainly found in the world of unicorns and fairy dust tonight. Tonight– just like every night of the year– there is a baby whose brain has been altered by neglect, whose body has internalized violence and anger and rejection. There’s a baby whose diaper wasn’t changed in time, whose cries for food went unnoticed, and whose mind has already suffered the life-altering damage of chronic abandonment and attachment issues.

But tonight I know his name. Tonight I’ve begun counting the hours until a stranger drops him off at our home. Forty-eight hours from now, I’ll be holding him before he falls asleep in a new bed, in a new room, in a new house, surrounded by new smells, and new people. He’ll study me and I’ll study him; the arduous and intense process of bonding and attachment tucked into every hug and kiss and giggle and snuggle.

I wonder, when is it a good time or the right season to swing open the door when chaos knocks? You spend a lifetime installing security cameras and building white-picket fences, planning for the ideal family size, setting up alarms, and locking our doors– anything to keep the mess out while idolizing the family within. I’m already releasing the little things– the sweet freedoms I’ve cherished in this season of relative independence.

I toss my lesson plan schedule in the recycling bin, wise enough to know that phonics and math will take a lower priority the next few months as we collectively learn to love a new human in our home. We’ll be stretched and spread thin. We’ll drive to many appointments and sit through many meetings with workers. We’ll navigate the newness and sit with the sadness.

We’ve learned that our love stretches and grows, though. We don’t have to slice smaller pieces of pie, carefully rationing ourselves to make sure there’s enough to go around. Life is to be celebrated, however tragic the arrival circumstances may be. We delight and cherish the ten little toes and kiss another set of squishy cheeks.

We are Easter people– driven by the beauty of a resurrected Savior. Forgotten celebrations don’t dilute the power of a conquering King. Maybe, just maybe, it’s enough for me and enough for you.

We’ve never had an “ideal” season to say yes. Foster care doesn’t only bring new kiddos, but it opens the floodgates to trauma, instability, scrutiny, additional appointments. Waiting for life to feel easier or more stable or more something simply shifts the end zone. Tonight, I cling to Easter hope and believe in Christmas joy, despite my circumstances suggesting otherwise.