easter in the hill country

Its funny how I think when people talk about the “Spirit” moving them, I sometimes, in the privacy of my judgmental inner dialogue, think that they’re weird. Or quirky. Or full of it. Or silly hippies. But of course, when I can’t find any other way to describe moments in life than “being moved by the Holy Spirit” I don’t feel weird. Or quirky. Or full of it. (That is to say, no more than usual.)


This past Saturday night my mom’s side of the family gathered around one table. (With the exception of my 95 year old great-grandparents, who I miss every single day. They live in Dallas but I’ve begged them to be Houstonians since I figured out how to talk.) We went via boat from our house to a casual restaurant on the lake and we sat, all 10 of us, on the deck as the sun went down and the wind breezed by. We laughed a lot and talked about nothing in particular as our waiter attempted to keep up with us.


Though not perfect and we definitely know how to push each other’s buttons, my family is wonderful. I found myself so blessed as the twinkle lights turned on, the guitar guy did his sound check, and his cello-looking bass guy played like he was a professional. My feet couldn’t keep me from tapping, and my mother’s head couldn’t keep from bobbing back and forth in her signature move. My dad was in trouble with the manager for adjusting the outdoor shade on the deck without asking, my grandfather was meticulously keeping the table clean, my cousins were laughing at us, my brother kept a list of how many women had checked him out, my uncle spilled a beverage or two and dropped at least a dozen paper napkins, and my grandmother carried on conversations with no one in particular. My aunt, who joined the family through marriage, has mastered the art of zen-thinking. I’m convinced half of the time she must mentally be elsewhere, because who would voluntarily put up with us?


I’ll be honest, at times I’m quite ready for a pity party. I’m nearly 25 years old and have never been in a relationship on the big holidays. Sure, there have been phone calls and a couple of boys that came close, but never anyone close enough to quite “count.” I’ve never had to tell my parents I won’t be with them for Easter, or Christmas… or July 4, or Halloween, or St. Patty’s Day. It’s always been me, just me. And sometimes that stings a bit.


My family is hilarious and supportive of anything I do. I deserve them not. After listening recently to the pastor at Grace Bible present staggering statistics about adoption, I know I have no right to complain about anything – crazy family members, stubborn brothers, or a lonely heart. Those six year olds in state custody, those thirteen year olds who have passed through several foster homes, they have done nothing to deserve their fate. There is no action or personality or condition in which a child should be without a family.


I’ve done nothing to earn the family that I’ve got, and when your grandfather has had 5 heart attacks, a few strokes, and is missing half the veins in his legs, you realize that life is not guaranteed.


I don’t have anything against the church we attended this morning, even if they did air a youtube video of “Cool and the Gang” on their projection screens. (Yes, I’m serious.) But my heart was more touched and more thankful for the Resurrection on the patio Saturday night, than it was within the church walls on Sunday morning. Something about the wind, and the twinkle lights, and the Jerry Lee Lewis-style dude strumming his guitar on the deck below, and the lake, and the sunset, and my family, reminds me that worship can be anywhere. It does not just occur on Sundays between the hours of eight and noon.


Your love, oh lord, reaches to the Heavens. Your justice flows like the ocean’s tides.