I headed out to the Easter Vigil, super-angry at one of my kids. It was a deep resentment, the kind that’s hard to shake.
Fortunately the service was extremely long, and as I sat in the dark with my lighted candle I had ample time for reflection. Surely, I thought, I had a hard heart toward my child.
That was a problem. How could I possibly approach Christ—who had just died on Calvary for my sake—with anger in my heart? That would be like saying, “Thanks for the suffering, Jesus, but I’m not up to forgiving even one person one thing!”
Lord, show me how to rise from this anger, reborn, I prayed. The request seemed about as difficult to fulfill as asking him to rise from the tomb. Create in me a clean heart, let me worship you in the beauty of truth. I’m sorry, I don’t know how to do this myself.
Slowly, my heart softened. Like most things, it wasn’t because I did anything right or well. It wasn’t that I was a good Christian, or because I found the words that finally worked. It was because he did the hard part for me.
