It’s Holy Week.

I have a love-hate relationship with Holy Week. One the one hand it’s the most Jesus-y of all Jesus-y seasons. In the words of Donald Miller, “I believe in Jesus, I believe he is the Son of God, I believe he died and rose again….but every time I sit down to explain this to someone I feel like a palm reader.” I know it’s not rational, and I readily admit I have no idea how or why the Cross works, but still, I love the guy. So Holy Week is a time I cherish — a retreat time with Jesus when we soak in his stories, his life, his handwork. During this time, some of the services I attend are a bit dry and some of the rituals I practice may ring hollow. But there’s always one that ushers me into the holies of holies. So I don’t mind filling up my calendar with evening services and mid-day vigils. It’s worth the gamble – to get in on the story with God.

On the other hand Holy Week is a lot of work. Passover alone is a half day of shopping, a full day of cooking and prepping, followed by two days of clean up and re-packing. Not to mention the editing of the Haggadah, which I’ve put off for two years now. Next year I’ll need to factor in about 16 hours of re-writing and enhancing. (Note to Self: Change to gender neutral language for God. Tone down the Messianic tendency to s-t-r-e-t-c-h the connection between the symbolic dots. Change some language to let the Seder be unapologetically Jewish and not Jew-ish. Borrow lovely ideas from the Velveteen Rabbi’s beautiful Haggadah.) Also, the “family” service at St. Mark’s starts at the ungodly hour of 8:30am. What family with little children can get everyone up, fed, and Sunday-morning-go-to-church-dressed by 8:30am?!?! (Note to Self: The “family” service is still the full-length liturgy including a twenty minute sermon from the Bishop. Bring coloring books.) Not to mention the fallout of two kids hopped up on Spring Break and sugar. For instance, right now Eden is in her chiffon Easter dress and embroidered Chinese slippers. She’ standing on the sit-n-spin whirling around at top speed while bartering Easter candy with Catie, who is chewing a wad of watermelon scented gum roughly the size of her fist. It’s 11am.

When it’s all said and done, Holy Week is worth it.

Without Holy Week we wouldn’t make ornaments for our Lenten Tree, and I wouldn’t know which Jesus stories are precious to my monkish friends, or that Spring as a season of renewal was personally powerful to many this year.

Without Holy Week Eden wouldn’t run upstairs with her “bag of plagues” yelling, ‘Look! Barbie has boils!’

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t get to celebrate my history with friends around the Passover table.

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t know that I don’t like Good Friday services that use T.S. Elliot poems instead of Jesus’ last words, and that I like to actually participate in worship service – not just watch the deacons as they venerate the Cross.

Without Holy week I wouldn’t know that Carter (who is 4) can’t stop crying about Jesus dying on the cross; and I wouldn’t hear Eden say, “Oooooh! Carter is going to be such a good Christian when he grows up!”

Without Holy Week Catie wouldn’t ask me if she could wear her light-up sandals to church “because Jesus and his friends wore sandals in the sand–you know Mommy, sand-alls–and this church is about Jesus.

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t see Eden’s sweet face at my bedroom door at 6am, or hear her say “Mommy! Jesus is risen!”– and I wouldn’t be able to respond “He is risen indeed!”

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t see the Wolfpup laugh at the tiny German sausages and the new video game tucked into his Easter basket.

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t hear the kettle drums, or see the be-ribboned procession, or watch the choir march through the cathedral with silken butterflies, or see the crosses draped in ribbons and bells.

Without Holy Week I wouldn’t realize that I really do believe.