You Can't Scramble Easter Eggs

It seems like all the pastel-colored glory of Easter faded into oblivion by late Wednesday of last week… or Thursday at the most.  

You guys don’t mind if I turn the Easter eggs into a salad? I ask nobody in particular.

But I don’t even like egg salad! I like my eggs scrambled!

Well, honey, you can’t scramble Easter eggs.

It's Monday morning I am faced with the same old problems and the same old struggles. I am grumpy and disappointed.

It’s not like I don’t believe it happened.

It’s more like I don’t know what I was expecting...

But, is it unreasonable to think...

that the incredible super-jazzed energy that raised the beat up and flogged; the half-dead-before-crucified; the three-days-dead-and-buried Jesus -

...is it too much to think that the incredible energy that not only raised this Jesus from the dead but also endowed His basic pre-resurrection body with these unbelievable post-resurrection powers....

... would make some change...

A fraction of a difference...

.... in this run-down life of mine?

A week... well, eight days ago… I think... and the story meanders into my mind, some may explain it as just a coincidence of timing. Plus, I admit I've been thinking of Tom a lot.

But something else rolls into focus, like an unexpected egg from the Easter Egg hunt, that you find a week later.

Eight days later, his disciples were again in the room.

This time Thomas was with them.

Jesus came through the locked doors, stood among them, and said,

"Peace to you."

Then he focused his attention on Thomas.

"Take your finger and examine my hands. Take your hand and stick it in my side….”

And this is where I stop.

Right at the place of Thomas’ curved finger inside the palm of His hand. 

Right at the place of Thomas’ shaky hand inside the scar on Jesus’ side.

Here’s Jesus, eight-days-fresh out of the tomb, donning His glorious resurrected body… perfect and flawless?

...

That's what we imagine.  That's what we want.  

That's what I want:

A flawless, scarless resurrected glory.

But that's not what we get. 

What we get is...

The scarred glory.

The pierced might.

I scratch my head, feeling  like my Easter eggs just got scrambled. 

I shake my head, feeling like my pastel-colored Easter glory just got a tattoo on its side.