I Yearned for Something More: The Journey from Platitude to a Personal Easter Experience

By, Mirjami Budarz

From my childhood, in Finland, I remember Palm-Sunday and sweet songs of Hosanna in the church and heart; the house was cleaned for the holy-days, our long farm table was decked with linen cloth, pussy willow branches were put in a large vase and decorated with ornaments. Grandma and mother baked many kind of special Easter pastries, and cooked. We children colored eggs.

From my the teenager years I remember, that during passion week the radio played only classical music and hymns and movie theaters featured somber religious movies, if any. It was a long boring week, time of waiting and suffering. Then Easter came, and I felt obligated go to church and hear of death, burial and resurrection of Christ. The church bells chimed, and I yearned for something more. Then we finally had our festive family meal. Life was “on” again.

As a young adult, a new mother, Easter became cutesy, with new outfits, a time of furry Easter bunnies, egg hunts, candy and a noisy festive meal at Grandma's house, and I yearned for something more.

Then something happened in the early seventies, during Chicago's, hot summer, during a time of social and spiritual upheaval, a time when tanned hippies slept on the beach with their dogs, marijuana, and incense smells lingered in the humid air. A time when long haired young women walked barefoot, dressed in fringed cutoff jeans and halter tops, peace signs dangling on chains around their necks, including mine. The time when our little son waited excitedly for a baby-brother whom he wanted to name after his favorite car, Buick. A time when our money was tight,Vietnam war was ending or over. Time of our second baby's birth, (no we didn't name him Buick)...And I yearned for something more.

Suddenly.. the name Jesus started to pop up in every-day conversations, there were signs of surprising spiritual quests everywhere. I heard of Him during the frequent walks with my little boys to the newly opened health store; He followed me to the farmers market and Indian restaurant or past the transcendental meditation-yoga shop. I heard 

(more like a haunting) of Jesus almost anywhere I went...and constantly my own thoughts drifted to God. Finally one evening I knelt in the alone-ness by my bedside and prayed simply: “Jesus if you are real, I need to know you, come into my life.”

Then, the first time since childhood, I heard a sweet Hosanna song in my heart as a bitter-sweet Easter exchange took place, and what had been just a platitude turned to a deep personal experience.

Holy son of God gave His life as ransom for mine. I sold Him for 30 pieces of silver, He made me His priceless treasure. I denied him, He adopted me in His family. And as I yelled, “crucify Him”, He prayed, “Father forgive her, she knows not what she is doing.” As I hammered the nails in His sacred hands, He carved my name in His palms. When I jabbed a crown of thorns on His brow, He promised me the crown of life. And as I stripped Him naked, He gave me a robe of righteousness. When I pierced His side, He made my heart His habitation. As I wrapped His dead body in burial cloths and spices, He gave me His life, washed me white as snow and I became a sweet savor of Him. I felt ashamed of what I had done and hid Him behind a stone, there He became my corner stone and rock of salvation. I left Him alone in tomb, but death could not keep Him, for His name was Life.

And when He rose on the early dawn of that long-ago Easter-morning, He proclaimed, “I will never leave nor forsake you.” Therefore now I profess, “My Lord and my King,” and as His cherished child I sing joyfully again:

“Into the city I'd follow the children's band, waving a branch of the palm tree high in my hand;                                                        one of his heralds, yes, I would sing, loudest hosannas, "Jesus is King!"

                                           

Bio:

Author and artist Mirjami Budarz was born in Finland after WWII into a large displaced Karelian family. Later she moved with her family to Germany and eventually the United States retiring in Wilmington, NC, with her husband in 2008. A short story of Mirjami’s was published in Guidepost’s, Unexpected Answers and she has illustrated two children’s books. 

Love Is A Verb

                                      The blog themes for this month are: February and Love. We hope you enjoy these posts!

By Melissa Cox

Love is a verb

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food.  If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?     James 2: 14-16 NIV

I remember a story a pastor told about God repeatedly calling him to approach a homeless man begging in front of our local Walmart. Even though he didn’t want to, the pastor brought the beggar lunch and just as he suspected, the homeless man asked the pastor for something more.  Pray for me.

So the pastor took his dirty hands in his and prayed for him in the median, cars passing on both sides. We expect that kind of faith and obedience from a pastor, but what happened next humbled the pastor and me.

When the pastor finished, instead of letting go of his hands, the homeless man began to pray for the pastor.  

I cried when I heard this story because I realized that my faith and my actions were empty.  Lord, how many opportunities to pray for someone have I allowed to pass by me? How many times has someone shared their suffering and needs with me and I have I uttered “I’ll pray for you” but walked away forgetting my pledge and their need almost immediately?  How many times have my words been as empty as my promise? 

I heard this story two years ago and it changed me. Whenever someone asks me for prayer, I immediately pray over them. No matter where we are. I have prayed for friends, co-workers, and total strangers inside Walmart, doctor’s offices, school buildings, parking lots, public bathrooms, and hospitals. Sometimes, I just hug them and whisper a quick prayer.  Sometimes, I begin praying for them even before they finish the sentence. 

It’s awkward sometimes, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I act.

Words are not enough. It’s time for our faith to express itself in love and not just with empty words.  Love is a verb.  It’s a call to action. 

Melissa Cox is a Georgia native and has lived in Wilmington for almost 10 years. She’s a wife and the mother of 3 kids, 2 dogs, and one cat. She dreams of being a famous inspirational speaker, who writes life changing books and lives in a tropical paradise. She currently serves as Chaplain of the Wilmington Word Weavers group.