We sat on the bed, strained throats fighting to articulate sense. Easter was a few days past, and I halfheartedly ate the mini gourmet chocolate bunny; it tasted good but it made no difference at all.
I told him something was missing, something I couldn’t place but that I needed desperately to have, something that mattered to the whole of me and to my being whole. I folded the gold wrapper, not into my quirky trademark perfect, tiny square, but back into the form of the bunny, now two-dimensional, empty.
Our conversation careened us on a trajectory that terrified us both, tears and desperation mixed with confusion and rage, and I wondered whether it was God I was missing because the hole felt about that gaping big. But I had felt it before, this God-too-far ache, and I knew that it wasn’t His presence I missed this time, yet I felt sure He was my only chance at supplying this elusive life-or-death need.
I looked at the flat bunny, poorly reconstructed in my hand, and I wondered to myself with mournful fury, Where is the resurrection power now?
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