My Loud Easter Shout Out

It is Easter. I am a Christian.

Contrary to what most people believe, I wasn’t born into Christianity. I became a Christian because I made a decision one night 24 years ago, all alone, in my living room, kneeling before my husband’s old bachelor-pad couch.

It was then, when I poured out my hurts and sorrows to a God that I couldn’t not see, that I was suddenly filled with a Love like no other. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet I knew without a single doubt that I’d been heard. I knew that I was accepted, loved, and that everything in my life would never to be the same.

It was so dramatic a moment for me that I was sure my husband wouldn’t stick around once he knew what a nutcase he’d married. We are celebrating our 25th anniversary next month and he’s the one who drags me to the early service every Sunday when I want to sleep just a little bit longer. We do this, not because we follow a strict adherence to some rules about how we should live, but because it feeds our hearts with comfort and wisdom which we need in dealing with Life.

Why am I telling you this very intimate detail about myself? Because I believe that I need to be transparent. And it is Easter and I am a Christian, so this day is a big deal.

I’ve been reading the Bible in the Book of Mark, Chapter 15. It is one of the four accounts of the crucifixion. As I read it the people come alive. There are three people in this drama who have grabbed my heart for the past few weeks. I think about them constantly:

• Simon, a father from out of town
• the Centurian, a hated Roman soldier
• Joseph of Arimathea, a wealthy council member

So how does Janene celebrate on Easter the resurrection of Jesus from the grave 2,000 years ago? [She is a bit nuts as my husband would say. I would call it Creative.]

So this is what I did – I wrote a fictional account of each of these individuals and how they were handling the Morning After. The Bible doesn’t say, so I am taking creative liberties. If you want to know what happened three days later, you need to read Mark Chapter 16. I really adore that Mary Magdalene. My Crazy….I mean my Creative... Energy will probably have to do something with her too. But I probably couldn’t do better than Francine Rivers [the bestest Christian fiction writer EVER]. You need to check out her historical Christian fiction.

Joseph of Arimethea

The Evening Before

Now when evening had come, because it was the Preparation Day, that is, the day before the Sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea, a prominent council member, who was himself waiting for the kingdom of God, coming and taking courage, went in to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Pilate marveled that He was already dead; and summoning the Centurion, he asked him if He had been dead for some time. So when he found out form the centurian, he granted the body to Joseph. Then he brought fine linen, took Him down, and wrapped Him in the linen. And he laid Him in a tomb which had been hewn out of the rock, and rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. (Mark 15:42-47)

The Morning After (my fictionalized account)

He sat watching the thin rays of the morning light touch the night sky and realized that the sobs of his wife had quieted down some time ago. Today, his servants would not be assisting him out of his blood-stained robes. They couldn’t risk being unclean on a Jewish high holy day. He’d done what was in his heart and the entire house would suffer the consequences. His long-time friends and neighbors would ignore him, his business acquaintances avoid him and his council seat would be given to another. At his age, his life was over. There would be no moving and starting over in a place where last night’s events were not known.

He’d done what was right; what couldn’t be denied. His people had destroyed their chance to change the world in his lifetime and he’d been helpless to stop it.

He reached for the parchment where he’d written the words of Jesus he’d collected over the past year; words that even now gave him comfort. Even now, that the man was dead. Slowly, he trailed his stained finger along them, reading aloud, “I am the light of the world, He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life. “ He heard his wife turn on the bed, muffling the sobs of grief over all that was lost. He’d buried Jesus of Nazareth, a man condemned to death for blasphemy, in his family’s tomb. And for that he would never be forgiven.

The Centurian

The Day Before

Now when the sixth hour (noon) had come there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour (3 p.m.). (Mark 15:33)

And Jesus cried out with a loud voice and breathed His last. Then the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. So when the centurion, who stood opposite Him, saw that He cried out like this and breathed His last, he said, “Truly this Man was the Son of God!”

The Morning After (my fictionalized account)

Lying on his pallet, he held up his battle-scarred hands against the morning light. Both strong and calloused; one stained brown with the blood of the son of god. He lay there considering what to do next. What did a mere mortal do to appease the gods when one of their sons had been slain? He wasn’t afraid to die, but he wanted it to be on his terms and not the humiliation of disease or enslavement.

If it was a Roman god, he would have purchased the prescribed sacrifice to appease their wrath and his show of humility may have bought him more time. But this was a Jewish god. A god who appeared as a man, but didn’t die like any of the other hundreds of men’s tortuous deaths he’d witnessed. He’d seen courage, he’d seen hatred, he’d seen despair. But this man’s death was different. He was speaking of forgiveness; words of love in Hebrew and Latin. Words that didn’t matter much to a man like himself; a soldier who had no time for poetry.

And there was the earthquake; the darkness. He rubbed the brown stain on his darkened palm with his thumb until the dried particles peeled away. The palm that he’d instinctively reached out to touch the leg of his suspended convict when all went dark. With the other hand, he’d reached for his sword, ready to fight anyone who would attempt to thwart the will of Rome by releasing the prisoner. But there in the dark, touching the cooling flesh, he knew. Just as the dead man had said. It was finished.

Rising from his bed, he set his mind to the task on hand. He’d need to find someone who would tell him what sacrifice to give this Jewish god to appease his part in the death of his son. He would start with the old man who saw bravely faced Pilate to request the body. The one who appeared to be of wealth, yet without servants, as he struggled alone to take the man’s body away.

Simon, a father

The Day Before

And when they had mocked Him they took the purple robe off Him, put His own clothes on Him, and led Him out to crucify Him. Then they compelled a certain man, Simon a Cyrenian, the father of Alexander and Rufus, as he was coming out of the country and passing by, to bear His cross. And they brought Him to the place Golgotha, which is translated, Place of a Skull. (Mark 15:20-23)

The Morning After (my fictionalized account)

He cradled his sleeping sons in his muscled arms, now offering them the protection that he’d been helpless to provide yesterday. This year he’d brought Alexander and Rufus to the holy city from their farm to teach them of God and how to live a good life by working hard to satisfy the law. A life filled with traditions, rituals and requirements. A burden to be born with pride by God’s people.

Again, his mind flashed to that horrible moment when a wrong turn had brought them face to face with the horror of Rome’s tyranny on the Jewish people. The bloodied man whose face was unrecognizable. He would have fought off the soldiers if not for the danger it would bring to his sons. One look at their terror and he’d shouted for them to wait; promising to return for them.

That one thought filled his mind. His sons. He’d prayed harder than he’d ever prayed as he carried the cross of the condemned man through the streets; feeling the whip mercilessly lick at his back every so often. He vowed to give his sons to God if he would return to them to him.

And here he was, holding them close to his heart and watching as they shook off the night terrors. He’d made a vow to God and now these sons of his belonged to the Almighty. Instead of teaching his son’s to be proud of their heritage, they’d only seen first-hand the horrible suffering and cruelty the Jewish people had endured under their conquerors. He’d have to discover the story of this condemned man and see if there was a lesson to be learned that could be used to build them into the fine Jewish leaders he’d dreamed they could be.

But first they would need to bathe.

He didn’t notice the blood and bits of flesh that clung to his best robe when the soldiers had released him at Golgotha. But he noticed it now. All three of them smelled of the death that clung to the stagnant air of the rented room. They would not be able to go to the temple today. Not now that they were unclean; stained with the blood of a dead man.

FYI – It is a historical fact that Simon’s sons, Alexander and Rufus, became leaders in the Christian church.

I think on these three individuals and have come to the conclusion that God accepts us where we are and no matter what we have done. We need to reach out and call on him with a believing heart and our lives will be changed forever.

Here is a picture I took of an ex-gang member as we were on the way to take his family's portraits. I saw the cross and just knew this picture needed to be taken. Even today, Jesus is still changing lives.

 Happy Easter, everyone – He is RISEN!!

A Soldier's Homecoming: Welcome Home Michael Howell

Last Friday, Good Friday, a soldier came home to his family after 13 months overseas. On this tour, his deployment began when his baby girl was 2 days old. I had the privilege of joining his wife and their children on this intimate journey on the day of his return.

Michael and LaDuska Howell are from Eudora, KS. They met in high school and dated on and off until they realized that they were pretty much destined for a life together. Their children are son, Jayden, 2, who is learning to wear glasses just like his Dad, and Jaelyn, 1, who is all sweetness in ribbons and bows.

We arrive at the Expo Centre in Topeka along with hundreds of other families. I can sense the emotion charge humming through the huge arena. Mothers preen their children to perfection and children wave miniature American flags and crumpled homemade signs. LaDuska dresses Jaelyn in a star-spangled tutu and strangers pause to admire her adorable cuteness. Our 9 a.m. arrival provides us with seats just 4 rows back from the floor where the soldiers will gather in formation.

Today’s cell phone technology ensures the timeliest reports of the soldiers’ progress from the airport in Kansas City. “They have arrived at the airport!” someone shouts out. Cell phones whip out and the joyful news is shared to loved ones waiting at home. But what would be a 40-minute journey will take hours. There are hundreds of men and women to check in and tons of equipment to move.

  

The morning draws long, snacks are handed out, and diversions to keep restless children in seats are ineffective. Finally, heads nod and little ones are napping. LaDuska has been up since 4 a.m. This wait is one more hardship in a year’s worth of tough times handled alone.

LaDuska shared with me how proud she is of Michael’s commitment to serve his country for the past three years and his military recognitions for being an outstanding team leader. But as she watches and waits through the long morning, her frayed nerves are giving way to goose bumps as she holds herself together to the last possible moment.

The Expo Centre is filling. There are motorcycle riders in American flags on black leather watching from above. There is a sprinkling throughout the place of various other military uniforms as fellow soldiers are showing their support. I overhear one say that you never forget your return.

“They are just outside!” LaDuska says. A ripple of conversation grows as her words pass up the rows through the crowd of people hungry for news. Every once in a while the words are yelled out.

Jayden begins his plaintive, “Daddy! Daddy!” call which he doesn’t stop. He is too young to understand where exactly his Daddy is so he is calling out toward the ceiling, to the left to the right, to the floor. As much as it tears my heart to hear him, I know it expresses the feelings of the emotional crowd.

At exactly 11 a.m. the big side doors roll back. The red, white and blue buses pull up, but you cannot see any soldiers. You know they are right there, you can hear them moving the equipment, but you must wait. Suddenly, you see a formation leading with flags.

The roar drowns out Jayden’s calls for his Daddy as everyone joins in with their voices. In marches everyone’s Daddy, Mommy, Sister, Brother, Daughter and Son. From the crowd bulbs flash, signs are lifted, arms wave. But as difficult as it is, these are military families and they stay in their places, waiting for the formal release of the troop before any personal reunion.

The soldiers remain resolute without turning aside from the marching formation. There are speakers, prayers, and formalities. Then they are dismissed.

Again the roar. And then the chaos. The long seconds as loved ones are done waiting and containing their emotions. Suddenly, LaDuska is screaming as she is texting. “There he is!”

From the mass of uniforms, one emerges leaping over rails and seats to diminish the space between him and his family. He’s coming so fast and hard, it seems he will tackle them. But suddenly, as he arrives within a couple feet of his son, everything changes. Very tenderly, he picks him up and holds him high. His face holds the disbelief that he is actually home, holding his boy.

Then he moves to his little girl whom he barely knows.

 He is enraptured with her. He looks past her to his wife and nearly breaks with emotion. It is too much for both of them.

Now he worries about his fellow soldiers who haven’t located their families in the chaos. Suddenly, with his children in his arms, he disappears on a mission to help them have their reunions. LaDuska and I follow with the stroller and finally stop to wait. She is anxious to have him with her again. What seems like forever is actually only a moment. Then he is back, satisfied that all are having their reunions too.

He is delighted with his children and needs to set them down to let them move away so he can see them from head to toe. But then the distance is too much and he scoops them up again. For the first time in person, he sees his baby girl walk. She is adorable in her tutu and a newspaper photographer asks to snap some shots as she toddles about.

  His son has some questions and he crouches down to hear him. The crowd disappears for the two of them as they discuss what is on Jayden’s two year-old mind. What he thinks really matters to his Father. Finally, Jayden is done and it is time to get their bags and head home.

I say my goodbyes and thank them for the privilege of participating in their reunion. They thank me for coming. I am exhausted, yet thrilled. I’ve been a part of a moment in time where a family divided war is brought together by love. What an honor it is to experience first-hand and be able to share with others!

Thank you to all our service men and women and the sacrifices they have made to our country. Your safe return home is something we all celebrate!

Flint Hills, KS - Fires, Families, and Photographic Fun

Last weekend, I had my second exciting photo-trip with my photo-buddy, Mandy.  We are as different as two people can be.  She a perfectionist who will not give up until she has success and I am a idea-maker who gives up the minute it is too hard to follow my vision (but not to worry, I'll have a new idea and all the enthusiasm that comes with it in no time at all!).  She has the audacity to blow up my pictures 300x and sweetly let me know she's seen the poor editing I've done, and I tell her of the crazy marketing stunts I pull that she never imagined attempting.  I have daughters giving me grandchildren and she has 2 puppies that she treats as children.   I won't go into the border problems of her house being in Missouri and mine in Kansas. And there is that little thing that doesn't seem to matter much... of having an age difference of more than 10 years.

Mandy's never been west of Topeka, so she believed all those Missourians that say Kansas is flat.  Ever since she's told me her dream of visiting Ireland, I've wanted to take her to the Flint Hills.  It was her birthday week, so I cleared my schedule and made it happen.

As we headed west on I-70 on Friday evening, a hazy fog was drifting across the road.  "They must be burning the grass in the area", I said casually.  "That'll ruin our view from the overlook near Manhattan."  She was surprised it was smoke since in looked so much like fog.  Sure enough, the gorgeous sunset was dimmed.

As night descended, we headed south to Council Grove.  Suddenly, she squeals.  There on both sides of the road, the land is on fire.  In normal company, we would keep on the road and drive through to our destination.  But I was with my courageous photo-buddy Mandy.  We parked the car off the road, retrieved our cameras and started shooting.  After a time, we stopped and showed each other our pictures.  Again, we were challenged to try new perspectives and ways of seeing what was before us.  More shots and we were finally done; smelly, thirsty and satisfied in our craft.

My mom and dad live in an elementary school in Wilsey where they run Wilsey Bible School.  As we snuggled down in their guest room, the tornado sirens sounded.  The Flint Hills were being pounded with hail the size of golf balls.  City people like me, worry about the damage to our cars and whether the insurance company will give us a new roof.  But for the Flint Hill ranchers, they worry about their cattle that will be calving during the storm without shelter.  They watch the creeks fill and pray for their roads to hold tight to the land as flood waters creep ever closer to their homes.

The next day we drove these roads in my dad's big, thunderous truck.  With those mammoth tires, we were invincible.  We paused and photographed Santa Fe Trail ruins and cattle nuzzling the spring prairie grass.

The ranchers were still shaking off the visions of the storm in the morning light while we city folks excitedly looked for art in light and shadow.  They spoke of the raining stones of ice pounding their work into the mud as we chased the barn cats through daffodils.

I don't know what they thought of us, but we saw these ranchers as strong, courageous, and timeless.  The land is in them just as they are in it.

The next day we rose early and headed across the Flint Hills from Council Grove to Strong City, Cottonwood Falls, and Emporia.  Other than the wagon trains, I don't think any vehicle has ever moved so slowly.  We saw so much that we wanted and needed to capture in our cameras.

How many ways can you photograph a single tree?  I can tell you that the wonder of discovering new ways of seeing through a lens are never-ending.  There is that branch that circles another branch and when you step a bit this way, the morning sun peak through just so.  So you focus on the branches and let the sun be a scatter of rays or do you focus on the sun and let the branches be in shadowed relief against the light?  Get way down on the ground (even laying on your back) and shoot up, then turn around and get as high as you can and shoot the twisted roots crawling through the dandelions.  What about that abandoned farmhouse on that hill in the distance?  Shoot the tree in focus with the house blurry in the background.  Then shoot through the branches to the house and make it in focus, while the branches are a blurry frame around your image. 

After Emporia, schedules were calling.  We made it back home just in time for a quick hug as a good-bye and the shared contentedness of knowing that we were closer friends because of these little black boxes of metal and glass than anyone could ever understand.  Thirty minutes after she left, I missed her on the seat next to me.  Only she would chuckle at my comment about the Trail Days Cafe door slamming a once-and-for-all goodbye.  Oh, yes, I did write that! 

We will have to wait for real life to get out of the way for our next adventure in July.  Mandy, now it's your turn to take me places I've never been and give me new memories that will last for a lifetime.  Happy birthday to you my friend!