This article on Slate is an interesting take on Easter. The author's correct in noting that Easter hasn't been a commercial success on par with Christmas, but in terms of what the holiday is actually celebrated for, fewer folks, I think, even understand why Christians celebrate Easter. They just think it's about bunnies and Easter baskets and chocolate and welcoming Spring.
One thing the Slate article touches upon, which also was a central point to the Easter sermon I heard today, was that there's no half-assedness to Easter. Sure, you can celebrate the birth of Jesus regardless of whether you believe he was the Son of God or just a really great guy who said and did a lot of great, loving things, because it's a nice story. But you can't say, sure, I sorta believe that Jesus may or may not have been crucified and then was physically resurrected. If you say you believe it, then there are some serious implications for that on your life.
One thing, though, that I think a lot of people overlook when it comes to the Jesus story is the weight the resurrection should be given. Most people tend to focus on the crucifixion because it focuses on the pain He experienced when he died for all of mankind's sins. But, really, without the resurrection, the crucifixion could also just be a story. The crucifixion is the price that was paid by a man who claimed to be the Son of God; the resurrection is proof that the Man is who He said He was - and that his death did indeed mean Grace personified.
Happy Crossmass everyone.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Visiting hours are over
Just got off the phone with my dad, and we had small talk; he told me that he'd eaten dinner and that he'd been taking some over-the-counter medication for his headache. This doesn't seem so significant, except that it's a major improvement over where he was about two weeks ago, lying in a hospital bed, eyes shut tight in a grimace, with a heart monitor strapped to his chest.
For the first time that I can recall, someone in my immediate family had a major health scare. Aside from my mom giving birth, nobody in my family has had a reason to stay in the hospital overnight, and as such, I'd been spared the roller coaster of emotion you feel when you have to spend days at a time in the hospital with a loved one: fear that whatever they have is life threatening, sadness at seeing them weak and in pain, frustration and fatigue from being cooped up in a hospital room for 12 hours, relief when it's time to leave, guilt when you see the expression on their face when they realize they'll be left alone for the night.
It started when he woke up with an excruciating headache; it turned into a trip to the ER when it didn't go away for five days. A CT scan showed that his brain was bleeding. After a few days of tests, the doctors concluded that he had a viral infection in his brain that caused it to swell and bleed. Luckily, no surgery would be required, and the swelling would subside with a three-week anti-viral treatment. While the rest of the family was feeling relief, my father was coming to terms with his mortality.
After the doctors assured him that he would recover and his headaches would subside, the rest of the us just tried to make my dad feel as comfortable as possible until he got to a point where his pain was no longer debilitating. In fact, my sister and I grew weary of my dad's woe-is-me attitude and the way he kept thinking he'd drop dead at any second. We'd roll our eyes at the drama with which he recounted his story to his visitors.
It wasn't until the last day I spent with him before I had to head back to New York did I realize, however, just how much this experience had shaken him. I had been in the hospital with my dad all morning, annoyed because for someone who was supposed to be experiencing debilitating head pain, he seemed to find the strength to talk my ear off in the way parents do when they suddenly feel they want to impart all this wisdom to you - you know, those conversations that really aren't conversations but more like lectures dressed up as meaningful dialogue. I was relieved when my sister showed up and he could spread the wisdom amongst the two of us.
We settled into our hospital chairs and watched the golf channel as my dad finally lay back and relaxed. Suddenly we heard him breathe harder, in almost wheezing gasps, and it sounded as if he were having some sort of seizure or asthma attack. Instead, we realized that he was sobbing - sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the way little kids do when they are inconsolable. I had never seen my dad cry like that so it was rather shocking. To keep from bawling myself I had to turn away, watching golf through blurred vision as a few tears managed to escape down my cheeks while I clutched his rough, dry hand. My sister (who had spent every day for the past week in the hospital with him and had become a hospital veteran of sorts because of her experience prior to the death of her father-in-law), was not as emotional; she simply adjusted his blankets, covered him up, and asked why now, after all this time, he was crying. He couldn't really answer and eventually calmed down, and we continued on with our afternoon of being glued to the golf channel, chatting about politics, and watching him get his vital signs taken.
My dad is now back at home, and is feeling better every day. He still has to take his medication, administered through a catheter snaked directly under his skin and into his vein, but his voice sounds stronger every time I talk to him. He'll probably still tell his dramatic story to anyone who will listen, but I think I'll humor him next time. I just thank God he's around to recount the tale.
For the first time that I can recall, someone in my immediate family had a major health scare. Aside from my mom giving birth, nobody in my family has had a reason to stay in the hospital overnight, and as such, I'd been spared the roller coaster of emotion you feel when you have to spend days at a time in the hospital with a loved one: fear that whatever they have is life threatening, sadness at seeing them weak and in pain, frustration and fatigue from being cooped up in a hospital room for 12 hours, relief when it's time to leave, guilt when you see the expression on their face when they realize they'll be left alone for the night.
It started when he woke up with an excruciating headache; it turned into a trip to the ER when it didn't go away for five days. A CT scan showed that his brain was bleeding. After a few days of tests, the doctors concluded that he had a viral infection in his brain that caused it to swell and bleed. Luckily, no surgery would be required, and the swelling would subside with a three-week anti-viral treatment. While the rest of the family was feeling relief, my father was coming to terms with his mortality.
After the doctors assured him that he would recover and his headaches would subside, the rest of the us just tried to make my dad feel as comfortable as possible until he got to a point where his pain was no longer debilitating. In fact, my sister and I grew weary of my dad's woe-is-me attitude and the way he kept thinking he'd drop dead at any second. We'd roll our eyes at the drama with which he recounted his story to his visitors.
It wasn't until the last day I spent with him before I had to head back to New York did I realize, however, just how much this experience had shaken him. I had been in the hospital with my dad all morning, annoyed because for someone who was supposed to be experiencing debilitating head pain, he seemed to find the strength to talk my ear off in the way parents do when they suddenly feel they want to impart all this wisdom to you - you know, those conversations that really aren't conversations but more like lectures dressed up as meaningful dialogue. I was relieved when my sister showed up and he could spread the wisdom amongst the two of us.
We settled into our hospital chairs and watched the golf channel as my dad finally lay back and relaxed. Suddenly we heard him breathe harder, in almost wheezing gasps, and it sounded as if he were having some sort of seizure or asthma attack. Instead, we realized that he was sobbing - sobbing so hard he couldn't catch his breath, the way little kids do when they are inconsolable. I had never seen my dad cry like that so it was rather shocking. To keep from bawling myself I had to turn away, watching golf through blurred vision as a few tears managed to escape down my cheeks while I clutched his rough, dry hand. My sister (who had spent every day for the past week in the hospital with him and had become a hospital veteran of sorts because of her experience prior to the death of her father-in-law), was not as emotional; she simply adjusted his blankets, covered him up, and asked why now, after all this time, he was crying. He couldn't really answer and eventually calmed down, and we continued on with our afternoon of being glued to the golf channel, chatting about politics, and watching him get his vital signs taken.
My dad is now back at home, and is feeling better every day. He still has to take his medication, administered through a catheter snaked directly under his skin and into his vein, but his voice sounds stronger every time I talk to him. He'll probably still tell his dramatic story to anyone who will listen, but I think I'll humor him next time. I just thank God he's around to recount the tale.
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