I grew up in church. I heard all the Bible stories while still in the womb. By the time I was old enough to know my ABCs I also knew that Easter was when we celebrated Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. Still, my Easters were filled with coloring hard-boiled eggs, eating large chocolate bunnies and egg hunts in a neighbor’s yard. Pretty much your average minister-kid’s Easter. As an adult, Easter was still filled with baskets of candy and big family dinners, but I graduated from egg-hunter to egg-hider. Otherwise, all else was the same. I sang joyous songs and celebrated Jesus’ death and resurrection. And I praised and thanked Him for saving all of us from eternity in hell and to an Abundant Life.

Then my parents died. Holidays are never the same after someone you love dies. I hid for the first three years, going to church only because either I had to serve, or it was expected. This Easter, however, slapped me in the face a few weeks ago and awoke me to the fact that I didn’t have a connection to this particular holiday anymore. Sure, I know the "reason for the season," to borrow a phrase from Christmas (I’m sure it won’t mind) but that reason no longer resonates deep in my heart. Maybe it never really did, I don’t know any more.

I recently discovered I’m not alone in my sense of disconnection and that got me to wondering how many people plaster on smiles on Easter Sunday and lift up their hands in hollow praise in some vain attempt to convince themselves they feel the joy of Easter. —Yeah, maybe my drama queen nature is overstating that a bit… but I wonder…

Today I struggled with the decision to go to church. At first I decided I wasn’t going, because really didn’t want to go. But then I chose to go. My reason may sound odd to some. I chose to go because I love Jesus and I felt that He would want me to go to a celebration of Him. As I went I asked Him to help me connect to the meaning of this day in my heart, not just in my head.

The music made me cry — no it wasn’t because it was bad, sheesh ya’ll! — It struck something deep within me that’s still resonating in my soul like a tuning fork. The songs weren’t anything special, just worship songs but something just kept ringing inside. Jeff’s sermon was very good, but there was no "ah-ha!" moment and I began to despair that I would never feel the joy others seem to have for this holiday. I felt overwhelmed as I sat listening to the worship team sing "I know my Redeemer lives…."

That’s when I felt Him touch me. I’d heard Him talking to me all morning; little things like "I’m still here." "Do you want to go?" and stuff. But as I sat there, head bowed, He came and knelt beside me, wrapped His arms around me and began telling me how He’d seen me in that moment, sitting there crying, when He was on the cross. "Your face was before me throughout it all. The stings of the whips digging into me, the long walk carrying the cross, the nails and the hanging there. All that time I saw you. I saw your life. I saw all those moments you struggled, that you were in pain, that you cried out in desperation for someone to save you from the things that were crushing you." He was as close to my ear as I thought anyone or anything could get, holding me close. I could practically feel His breath on my ear as He spoke. "I saw you. I saw your heart. I saw all of you. And you are the reason I did all that, why I endured all that. I got through it by seeing your face and knowing what it would do for you. I did it for you. Just you. Because I love you."

I started to protest, to point out that there were other people there in that theater that He died for too, and that in fact needed Him more than I did and that I didn’t want to—that I knew I shouldn’t "hog" His time. He told me, "forget about everyone else. That’s none of your concern. I’m here with you. This is our time. You and me. This is about you. I did all this for you. Just for you."

I don’t understand that kind of love. Oh, I can understand Jesus dying for YOU. Or for all of us. But for me alone? Me all by myself? As an individual? No. I don’t deserve that kind of love. I don’t even know if I really believe in that kind of love. And maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time with this. I cannot believe anyone would love me this way. I don’t do anything in my life, ever to deserve it. Even as a follower of Jesus, I screw up on a daily basis and do stuff I know is wrong, that hurts Jesus, for no other reason than because I want to. Why in the world would anyone go through all that bloody agony and death just for me??? No one would. Because I’m not worth it.

Yet Jesus persists and insists He did. He keeps saying He did it all just for me. Just for me.

Maybe I’m confusing the Good Friday feelings with Easter, but I can’t help it. I don’t feel that joy that I saw most everyone else display  today. I feel overwhelmed. I cannot stop crying whenever I think about my morning with Jesus and what He said to me. Maybe some day I’ll be able to have real joy over all this. Right now I’m just too blown away by it all to bounce off the walls. I can only sit in wonder, and cry, that someone would go through all that just for me.