Rachel Fisher

Christ is risen, and so are we. Time and time and time again, we die a million ways and are resurrected time and time and time again. Light springs forth out of the bleakest, darkest places. Hope prevails when hate feels invincible. Eternal life defeats evil death.

Humans are nasty creatures. We starve children for political gain, undercut our neighbors for superiority, and sentence innocents to the cross. And yet, we resurrect by the grace of God. Jesus takes on the hate and the sorrow and the despair of the world so that we may live. We get to grow and show mercy and beg for forgiveness and try and try and try again. And when we fail, God tenderly reminds us that no more is there a challenge to champion, a pit out of which we must climb. Our Alpha and Omega is triumphant, almighty in his wondrous love.

Christ is risen, and so are we. Time and time and time again.

Are you there, God? What are you planning? If you love us so much, why do we long for the things we have not yet received?

How can you say, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart,” and still seem silent? How can you place desires on our hearts—the resurrection of Christ, peace in Gaza, a boyfriend, a book deal—if we frequently face disappointment? 

Why do things have to be this way?

Why do I constantly feel like this?

Why, God?

Why?

Why.

Jesus is crucified, and I’m complaining about tacos.

I’m driving with the sunroof open, beaming in the springtime breeze. A car cuts me off, and I blare my horn and call them an idiot. 

Jesus is placed on trial, and I curse out a minivan.

I sit in sweet music as I ruminate on the talents of my colleagues and the beauty of my church. I roll my eyes at the text message that flashes across my screen.

Jesus has been sentenced to death, and I laugh at a mean joke.

My heart is bursting at the seams, I cannot contain the love I have for my best friend’s children. I return to my desk and wallow in self-pity for the paper I have to write.

Jesus begins carrying his cross, and I whine about my almost-free education.

Our home is filled with laughter and joy, supported by strong beams, soft blankets, and sweet memories. I slam the door in my sister’s face after a meaningless quarrel.

Jesus reaches out to his grieving mother, and I bicker incessantly with mine.

I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this gift of writing, determined to use this precious gift I’ve been bestowed. I tear myself down out of shame and insecurity when I don’t consistently produce content.

Jesus is stripped of his clothes, beaten, and nailed to the cross, and I bastardize a blessing.

It’s the morning of Good Friday, and I order breakfast tacos to kick off the holiday weekend. I send a scathing review and declare the gesture ruined when their delivery is delayed.

Jesus is crucified, and I’m complaining about tacos.

I opened my email yesterday morning to read this subject line: “Hold Pickup Notice Your hold has arrived. Please pick up at the Library’s Circulation Desk.” Letting out a small squeal of excitement, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I might as well own this particular library book because I initially held it hostage for weeks past its due date. Alas, being the upstanding citizen I am, I did finally return the book and pay the late fee…only to immediately place it on hold once more. Finally, my turn has come up yet again, so now I may resume this 600-page-journey on which I initially embarked. I wonder if I’ll get the exact same book, though. The library has four copies in circulation, so the odds are not in my favor. Why do I care? The words are the same, the cover art identical, the plot and character and adventures unchanging. What difference does it make if I receive the exact product I released from my care two weeks ago? A small part of me cannot help but feel sentimental…is that ridiculous? 

Library books, I have discovered, are wonderful exercises in the art of letting go. We, as a society, cherish stories and find value in the act of sharing them; therefore, the institution of a public library makes sense. But another coursing current flows alongside these values: our desire to grip tight to what we hold dear. Spiraling beyond books, I struggle so severely with saying goodbye. The transfer of power is rarely peaceful as I bid farewell to a beloved memory, time, or space. Yet, I freely relinquish my attachment to library books because that is the agreement I’ve made: to enjoy them for a short period and then let them go. 

Marie Kondo, expert organizer and author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, guides how to give away worldly goods through a ceremonial technique of sorts. She encourages thanking the item–whether it’s an old t-shirt, a forgotten childhood toy, or that ugly stool you’ve had since college–in order to acknowledge its presence in your life. As goofy as it may seem to thank a pair of jeans, I so appreciate the idea that we can show gratitude for what we’ve had and accept that our connection with this thing has concluded. Which inspires even deeper insight: what else could I absolve that is past its time? Shame from not completing a task list? Anger from a failed relationship? Apathy toward a broken world? How might I take this defined moment and move on to better, kinder things? If I can manage to turn in a library book, perhaps I can attempt to release more holds which no longer serve me. What wondrous possibilities await if I learned to let go? 

Hi, my name is Rachel Fisher, and I am a pusher…of limits. Sometimes, it’s a lovely trait, in that I get a lot done. But in other, more toxic times, it means I go too far. Travel is a great example of this delicate balance. I sit here, typing this post, in New Jersey, anxiously awaiting my connecting flight from Portugal on home to Houston. I had a lovely trip, and instead of leisurely bouncing to the United lounge and patiently awaiting my connecting flight four hours later, I chose to take a risk. Placing myself on standby for an earlier flight, I raced to the gate wherein I was not guaranteed a seat, my luggage* ambiguously assigned to either route, depending on how it was scanned…

Stressing over the status of my suitcase, I finally sprinted to the standby plane. There, I found a crowd of frustrated customers, many of whom actually had seats but were bumped due to a previous cancellation. Realizing I was never going to be on that plane, I tapped into my favorite coping mechanism, self-loathing. Not only had I spent so much time stressing and sprinting from one end of the airport to the other, I wasted precious time I could’ve spent relishing my last bit of vacation. In a moment of utter defeat, I called my mom, tears of hot rage streaming down my face. “Why am I like this?” I asked her aloud, frustrated with my inability to take the easy road and just RELAX. “You live and you learn,” my mother kindly reassured me. Texting my dad to inquire about the possibilities of my misplaced luggage, he logically reasoned, “What’s the worst case scenario?” Still upset by my actions, I replied, “I’m just so mad at myself.”

The reality is, this is small beans compared to actual problems most people face. But it serves as a stark reminder of one of my greatest vices: greed. Not Scrooge McDuck style greed, but the kind of greed that makes me think I can bite off more than I can chew: a false sense of control. If I just work hard enough or strategize well enough or charm enough people, I can make things nice and planned and predictably the way I want them to be. But real life doesn’t work that way, not in relationships or jobs, certainly not in an airport. How, then, does a limit-pusher like me resolve to slow down? For starters, I need to learn how to stop bullying myself about the choices I make. Mistakes happen, that’s a fact, but these are the moments in which we grow. Better yet, the times we feel most powerless can serve as reminders of how deceitful our false senses of control really are. For in these instances we can turn ourselves toward the source of peace and forgiveness and yes, power, that will never forsake us. I have never liked the phrase, “We make plans and God laughs,” because I don’t for one second believe God revels in our misfortunes. However, the idea that we have it all figured out and need not lean on a relationship with the creator of the universe is how our hubris gets the best of us. My flight connection debacle is a silly example, but I choose to thank God for the reminder that I am not in control and that is a-ok. The worst that can happen will never be beyond redemption because the one in control wants good things for you and me and every other person in Newark airport and beyond so so much. There is no limit to that love.

Author’s note: I was reunited with my bag, so the story does have a happy ending!

*I must state that I NEVER check a bag…but I was bringing home wine!

Remember how last week I said the weight of Christmas felt more burdensome than exciting? Now that it’s over, I feel nothing but sadness! In grief for the season ending, I’ve spent the past few days driving around town trying to soak in all the decorations that will inevitably come down. Gazing up at the twinkling lights, a lump bobs in my throat, not only because of their spectacle, but also because of their preciousness. The fact that I know these beloved beauties’ time is limited forces me to cherish them. I can’t help but wonder, though…would I still value these decorations if they were permanent? Which then begs the question…how many wonderful fixtures—people, places, and things—do I take for granted in my everyday life?

There’s an amazing (and iconic) scene in Elf where the main character, Buddy the Elf, is discovering all the “joys” of New York. He’s twirling and laughing and leaping with giddiness over the many beautiful and exciting in which the city breathes at Christmastime. Except they’re not special…it’s just normal New York. A spinning door, a littered sidewalk, a mediocre cup of coffee…it’s all the nuances that are a part of everyday life. In the midst of such paradox, the Louie Prima song “Pennies From Heaven” plays. As chipper as the music is, the lyrics have always struck a chord with me: “Everytime it rains, it rains pennies from Heaven. Don’t you know each cloud contains pennies from Heaven? You’ll find your fortune falling all over town. Be sure that your umbrella is upside down.”

Pennies are meaningless alone, but added up, they can make a fortune. Similarly, when we seek joy in the small things, we find goodness “all over town.” It’s easy to find cheer when looking at Christmas decorations, with their value well over one cent (both literally and figuratively). But I hope the lesson I learn as I leave 2023’s holidays is that we can see small wonders in the present, regardless of the season. January may not have big red bows or grand garland, yet there’s still magic all around if we only turn our umbrellas upside down. Happy New Year!