Easter Sunday of the year I turned 14 was the darkest Easter I ever experienced, because April 4, 1974, was the day my mother died.
It’s fitting for me that today, April 4, 2015, falls on the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It’s a day that carries a heaviness, a darkness, that I can’t shake. Every Easter feels that way, actually. It’s the day of blessed resurrection, yet always the day of remembrance of my mother’s death.
I say with Job, “I know that my Redeemer lives.”
I don’t know what else to say today.