“Father, into your hands I entrust my life.” Psalm 31:5

On Sunday, our pastor spoke on the last words of Jesus, and he challenged us to model our prayer perspective after this particular scripture that Jesus uttered as he hung on the cross.

When I awake from the night and open my eyes every morning, “Father, into Your hands, I commit my spirit.”

When I stop myself during the day from thinking negatively, from going “there,” from dwelling on that which I cannot change, “Father, into YOUR hands I entrust my life.”

When I fall into bed at night and stare into the darkness while my mind swims, “FATHER, into Your hands I ENTRUST my LIFE.”

This particular scripture has tattooed itself to me all week. Not only this one, but another: Thou wilt keep him perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee…

This Easter is a difficult one. Not that I haven’t had a few difficult Easters in the past 10 years… Learning to let go of the traditions, celebrating such a glorious day without grandchildren hunting for eggs, missing lunch with Dad AND Mom, not having a set plan that involves the pretty decorations and meal planning and prep, no hiding of eggs and putting together baskets of fun for my girls. I look at all of that and see that it all revolves around what has always been a tradition in my mind. After 50+ years, it’s understandable. It’s also very painful to a daughter/mama/Ama heart. So I say under my breath,

“Father, my expectations sometimes overtake reality. I have so much for which to be grateful. Please calm my heart, bandaid my hurt, and hold my life tight in Your hands this weekend and always.”

We are spending this weekend with a friend. This friend wraps around Sam’s waist and makes a funny little “click-push” sound as healing poison goes into his port, and it is one reason this Easter has no ham on the table, no celebration lunch planned, and no weekend schedule mapped out.

No plan, Dan.

On top of hosting Sam’s waisted friend, he also has the joy of losing two of his chompers tomorrow, two big guys in the back of his mouth who have overstayed their welcome. So our Easter weekend modus operandi is:

No plan-istan.

We don’t know if we’ll be here or there. Wherever the patient wants to be, we will be. We may have a bowl of cereal in place of colorful deviled eggs. We may go to church at sunrise or watch on an iPad. We may enjoy being at home in small town USA or we may be taking up space in Kansas City. Who knows.

No plan, man.

What I DO know?

I am grateful that Sam is able to work.

I am grateful that Sam was worried our grass wasn’t going to be mowed for Easter – I know, right? – so he mowed it last night as the sun was going down and the wind blew chills down his spine.

I am grateful for a front porch that is calling for a guy on chemo to sit and relax.

I am grateful for green, for life, for a silent pain of wishfulness, for Easter happy for others.

I am grateful for a new app on my phone that has renewed my motivation, along with an obsessive-compulsive boss and sister…to walk walk walk.

I am grateful for a few minutes this week to watch and listen to Andrae read his chapter book, for silliness as Andersyn rode her training wheels down the street, for pride as I watched my oldest Collins girl look so grown up, for heart burst as I adored the youngest ones smile big and wave and hear several times over and over, “Ama, I’m YOUR kid.”

I am grateful for a message on Sunday that reverberates all week long.

I am grateful for a constant reminder in all kinds of little things of where I have been, what kind of treatment I was rescued from, who I was, but also…where I am now, HOW I am treated now, WHO I am now. Life is not perfect at all. Those who care, ask. They want to know the story. Those who don’t care so much, they live their own life without us. It can be pretty emotional and painful. But as I was also reminded this morning by scholar William Barclay in my devotion, this is a wonderful Easter message to ponder all weekend:

We see Jesus plumbing the uttermost depths of the human situation, so that there might be no place we might go where he has not been before.

Into His hands, we commit our spirits. There is no place He has not been, no pain He has not felt, no emptiness He has not experienced, no rejection He has not known.

Sam’ll take a little chemo and an internal cancer egg hunt with a side of ham, thank you. THAT is our Easter plan, Fran.