Easter: Learning To Love

"I really do believe that God is love, one of deep affection and grace and forgiveness and inspiration.' -William P. Young

Easter dinner: Spinach salad, deviled eggs, grilled salmon, grilled flank steak, and scalloped potatoes. 

Easter confuses me.

Yes, it's meant to be the day of all days when we bask in the assurances that God loves us. 

I'm good with that idea.

But God's way of proving his love to us is to hang a mortal human by nails and leave him to die?

And then to claim that this man is bearing the punishment that we deserve for our mistakes and missteps in our own lives?

Ugh. That doesn't feel like redemption to me. Sometimes, Easter feels like violence, gore, and a sickening disregard for human life. 

It feels, in a word, like suffering.

As Easter once more whirls around, I find myself struggling knee-deep through this same familiar swamp of confusion.

If God loves us so much, why does he allow us to suffer?

* * * * *

Mmm, let me start at the beginning. Here's what I think I know:

This life is not meant to be a picnic in the park. 

That's what heaven is.  

We'll get to that lovely life after this one is done.

But this life is for learning to love. 

I do believe that's true.

And while suffering is not the same as loving,

Suffering is very helpful for learning to love. 

Stick with me. I'll explain.

* * * * *

Easter dessert: Pound cake, whipped cream, strawberries. 

After what was supposed to be a quick and easy half-day dance through laproscopic gall bladder surgery, complications in my case landed me in the microscopic 3% minority and a bed upstairs in the main hospital. I was in absolutely miserable pain. Like a wounded animal, I craved dark and cold; I demanded that the curtains and shades be pulled to seal off every trace of sunlight, and a window opened to let in a steady blast of cold winter air. I lay in an agonized heap in my bed, listening to my phone blow up with text messages about the latest mishaps in my mother's Lewy Body Dementia-driven life - and yes, I really did have to read and respond to them. I could not eat, could not sleep, and for the next 12 hours, did not respond to the pain meds. 

In a word, I suffered. 

Several hours into this nightmare, the door to my room swung open. The light from the hall stung my eyes as I glanced over to see a vaguely familiar face. Ugh. My surgeon. I had no desire to talk to anyone, much less the person who had dealt me this misery, and I determined to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

"Oh, wow!" he chattered cheerfully. "It's like a cave in here! Aren't you freezing?"

"This is how I like it," I muttered into my pillow. 

"Alright, fair enough," he agreed, stepping to the head of my bed and pulling up a stool. "Tell me how you're feeling. Let's talk about what's going on."

I talked while he listened.

He talked while I listened.

He couldn't do anything right then and there to ease my pain, he admitted, but he was going to get me through this misery. He took his time to carefully explain what had gone wrong in my procedure, and what he was going to do to fix it. He promised to keep adjusting my pain meds until I felt better. And he promised me that he was going to stay with me until we got through this. Together.

And, you know what, that's exactly what he did. 

Over the course of that afternoon and early evening, he checked in on me multiple times. With just the right balance between cheery confidence and respect for my agony, he delivered the message to me over and again: We were in this together. I was not alone. 

All of my doctor's promises eventually came true. Sometime around midnight, the pain medications finally kicked in. He instructed the nurses to bring me food whenever I was ready to eat, and even at that late hour, they rustled up a lovely assortment of jello and applesauce cups. And the next morning, as I headed back into surgery, he stopped by to explain that he was leaving me in the capable hands of one of his team members, and if all went well (it did) I would never have to see his face again (I didn't.)

He is risen indeed.

And now, ten years later, I look back at this wretched day in my life and I smile. 

Yes, I suffered. 

But in my suffering, I wasn't alone. A fellow human being came alongside me and showed me love in the most direct and concrete ways. He brought me to a new, deeper understanding of compassion, and his care has left a mark on me to this day.

Now here's the fifty-dollar question: Could I have learned these same lessons without the ugly suffering I endured?

Maybe.

But without the darkness of my pain, my doctor's gifts of light and love would have not shone so brightly.

I know that sounds corny, and maybe even a tad masochistic, but I think it's true. 

Suffering sharpens our ability to experience love, and to learn from it.

And for that, dear God, I am grateful.