THE EASTER SEASON lasts seven weeks. It starts on Easter Sunday and continues to Pentecost on June 8 this year.
Over these weeks, we are encouraged to reflect on the meaning of Christ’s resurrection while Easter’s “alleluias” are fresh.
I love the way the Diana Butler Bass writes about the purpose of the Easter Season.
She says, “The central question of these weeks is: What does Jesus’ resurrection mean for our lives in the world?” Easter is about Jesus, she reminds us, “… but Easter is also about us.”
What I think she means is, Easter is not just about the promise of life after death, it’s about living life no longer afraid of death.
Her comment really hit home for me over these weeks since Easter.
I had the opportunity to spend 10 days with our son Steve on a road trip through Ireland. And it was wonderful to be with him.
The trip was dampened though with the news that our very good friend and business partner at the winery for over 30 years had passed away.
I left for Ireland the day after Easter, knowing Gene was in the ICU seriously ill, but he seemed to always bounce back from previous close calls. But this time he didn’t bounce back.
He literally ran out of air. He suffered from a rare lung condition and his lungs were beyond repair when other complications set in.
I got the email of his passing on that Wednesday and called home as soon as the time zone difference allowed.
Vicki and I both cried, barely able to speak.
Frankly, Easter’s joyful message that death had been conquered in Jesus’ resurrection was the last thing on my mind.
We just wept, overwhelmed by the cold, hard fact Gene was gone.
I came home the week after he died, and when I met Vicki and later Gene’s family, I wept again and again.
No words. Just sobs of grief.
But I want to share an insight into the meaning of Easter that came to life for me in the most unusual way as I reflected on my experience at the SeaTac terminal when we landed and then getting my car back from where I parked it at one of those long-term parking lots on International Blvd.
As our plane got closer to Seattle, I felt myself getting nervous. It wasn’t about landing.
I was ready to get off after nine hours of flying. I was nervous about getting ready for US Customs.
Getting off the Coho ferry in Port Angeles can be a bit nerve racking as many of us know, but coming in from Europe can be that on steroids.
Past experience with steely-eyed no-nonsense agents came to mind.
As the plane made its final descent, I began to check to see where my receipts were to prove how much I had spent on souvenirs.
I tried to remember how much I could spend before duty needed to be paid.
Will that Atlantic Ocean sea salt I bought be OK to bring in?
What about that bottle of Irish whiskey I got for my son-in-law that I hope didn’t break in my luggage?
Will I have to open my suitcase to prove I wasn’t lying?
You get the idea.
The plane landed on time and one by one all of us passengers made our way off the plane.
We all followed the signs to luggage pickup and then stood impatiently for our luggage to be launched onto the carousel by that tongue of a conveyer belt that comes out of the airport’s Hades.
My purple bag was finally regurgitated and when it came around, I pulled it off and looked around for where to go next.
Last January, after coming back from another trip with Steve to Mexico, all of us passengers were chuted into the Customs line for final clearance to leave the terminal.
I was expecting the same thing to happen this time and I felt my blood pressure rising.
But there wasn’t a sign for Customs or a designated line anywhere to be seen.
I was at the part of SeaTac that was for international arrivals for sure, but I couldn’t believe I might just be allowed to go on with my life and simply leave without first going through Customs.
I looked around a final time, saw others walking out the door so, I just walked, no, I scooted out of the terminal, too.
As I did, I half expected a long arm of the law to grab my shoulder and a rough voice saying, “Where do you think you are going, didn’t you see the Customs sign back there?”
I sheepishly made my way to the sky bridge and down the escalator to where the courtesy shuttles come.
As luck would have it, the van for my parking area was just coming around the corner.
I flagged down the driver and got on feeling still like I had gotten away with something.
The packed shuttle arrived at the parking lot.
I got off and made my way to the counter to settle my account and get the key to my car.
When it was my turn, the agent looked up my account and let me know it had already been paid and my car was waiting for me just outside.
What does this story have to do with the Easter Season?
I think it means we don’t have to fear going through a heavenly Customs when our earthly flight lands the final time.
There won’t be a dog at the pearly gates sniffing to check for smuggled goods.
We won’t have to show ID or a lifetime of receipts for things we bought or shouldn’t have.
We will be welcomed home not by a guard but a heavenly host.
Further, when we go to get our chariot, that host will say with a wink that he’s already paid for a lifetime of parking, but we won’t need the chariot anyway.
Everything is within walking distance.
Diana Butler Bass’s reminder that the message of Eastertide is not just about the risen Christ, but about what it means in our daily lives is true.
And it might just be as simple as not fearing Customs anymore and knowing your parking fee has been prepaid.
Post Script: I found out later that the Dublin airport is one of the few where you go through US Customs before you leave.
I showed my Trusted Traveler identification, but wasn’t asked about anything else.
There is another faith column in there someplace, the way I like metaphors, but that will have to wait for another time.
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Issues of Faith is a rotating column by religious leaders on the North Olympic Peninsula. Don Corson is an Ordained Deacon in the Lutheran Church (ELCA) and the winemaker for a local winery. He is also the minister for Prince of Peace Lutheran Church in Forks. His email is ccwinemaker@gmail.com
