I have many wonderful Easter memories. I have one notebook somewhere in my storage boxes where I have 4 or 5 years’ worth of Easter trip journals written in form of letters to a friend at home – I would always pass the notebook on to her or give her a copy and keep the notebook for the following year. My family’s Easter trips to Montana or South Dakota became such a tradition that every year when springtime rolls around (or if I’m in Bogota, where it happens to feel like MN spring quite often), I get the urge to drive west.
The Maundy Thursday dinner at church was also a special part of Easter week (perhaps part of the excitement was thinking about Friday morning’s early drive west!). It wasn’t just a special time with friends and family, but it was a moment to reflect on what Jesus did – not only His crucifixion, but how He washed the disciples’ feet and commanded them to love each other.
The last two years, I haven’t been home for Easter. I haven’t participated in a special dinner or driven west with my family. These are rich memories, and a lot has changed. But, there are some things that have not changed. All of these rich experiences were shared in one place: the Father’s House.
The Father’s house is His dwelling place, His presence, the place where I can find total rest, the place that I call home, the place where I invite Him in to my room to share my life. It’s not a church building, it’s not a place I only enter during worship services. It’s a place I consciously go on a consistent basis to enjoy Him.
Although I missed this year’s Maundy Thursday dinner and although I’m not traveling west, I am still in the Father’s house. I am enjoying fellowship with my brothers and sisters that I hadn’t met before. I am enjoying the Father in ways that I had never experienced. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.