It’s in a Post It Note

Another Easter weekend rounds the bend with the smell of confectionary sugar wafting through the stores.  Thick chocolate smudges line our toddler’s plump pink lips like an unfortunate mishandling of Mama’s new lipstick.  Streaks of mud find their way on every single thing in our busy young family, the once white front door, new batman sneakers, old rain boots, leather couches and freshly scrubbed living room floors, flushed cheeks and the seat of the favourite Elsa printed ice blue pants; all waiting to be baptized in the quickly culminating run-off puddles lining the driveway.

Ironically it is in the mud stains that we  find our faith, our hope and new life.

We fly to Walmart for every colour of peep imaginable, we stuff plastic eggs with chocolate and purchase fresh chalk to brighten our bleak driveways, fill bubble wands, ogle new dresses and coordinating ties, white shoes and those little ruffle socks that make Mother’s internally sigh with pleasure and then we …

STOP. Halt actually. Forced. Abrupt. Unprepared for it even. We screech in on two wheels from our busy lives.

And we are at the foot of the cross on a Maundy Thursday evening church service.  A literal representation, significant on its own stands before us as it has in years before and we pause and remember what Jesus death really means. We imagine the confusion and uncertainty, the wavering faith and hurting hearts of the followers and disciples and we sit in the agony of it for a bit.

But behind it stands a black textured wall; soon it will be littered with Post It Notes signifying people’s prayers to God.  Sticky pleas to God for healing and health, children and friends, relief and a promise. Testaments to present day confusion and uncertainty, the wavering faith and hurting hearts.

She leans over toward me and whispers “How many years did we write her name on a Post It.” It’s a statement, not a question. And I am forced to remember with her the years we prayed and pleaded that God would hear our cries for her young girl.

A hot tear threatens to escape down my cheek and leave a dark stain of mascara behind it, a trail forged for the next and the next to follow. Bravely I reach for the pile of yellow sticky notes and Sharpie poised in my trembling hand, I pause.  I will do it again.  I will etch out their names in black ink.  The Post It is more than a prayer, more than a plea even, it’s a statement of faith.