Beyond the Baskets: A Reflection on Second Chances

Chocolate bunnies. Cadbury eggs. Baskets overflowing with plastic grass and sugar. What child doesn’t delight in these? The image of family gatherings around a ham dinner with all the fixings sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? For many in our country, this is the sum total of what Easter entails.

But for you and me, Jesus Christ, the Resurrection, and the promise of everlasting life are the reasons we celebrate. Everything else is secondary.

When I look at the cross, I see more than a historical event; I see the embodiment of second chances, wholeness, and the quiet, certain joy of knowing I will see my loved ones again. Today, I am forced to think about these things with a heavy heart. As I write this on Tuesday, March 17, it would have been my nephew’s 33rd birthday. We lost him five years ago this coming week.

Henry Gerhard Mountain passed away just after his 28th birthday. I wish it weren’t so, but Henry’s path was one filled with torment, personal demons, and a profound sense of hopelessness. I often wrestle with the question of Henry’s eternal fate. He wasn’t raised in the Christian faith and, as far as I know, never came to profess Jesus as his Savior. There is a weight in that "not knowing" that is hard to carry. Perhaps, in God's mercy, it is better that I don't know.

However, looking back eleven years ago this same week, we also lost my mother-in-law, Janette. Her story stands in stark contrast to Henry’s.

On March 14, 2015, at only 62 years old, Janette lost her battle with Alzheimer’s. She was a mother, a grandmother to our girls, a loving wife, and a deeply caring soul who was diagnosed with that terrible disease before she even hit sixty. While the illness claimed her mind and eventually her life, it could never destroy her soul.

I met Janette over a decade before she married my father-in-law. At the time, she was the proverbial “church mouse”—muted, composed, and modest. That was simply her temperament, and it made getting to know her a slow, challenging process. But one conversation stands out above all others, preserved in my mind with both humor and fondness.

We didn’t know it then, but Alzheimer’s was already beginning to corrode her neurological synapses. We were all sitting around her dining room table discussing the usual things: kids, school, and church. I was in my final year of seminary, deep into studying "the end times." My father-in-law and I were engaged in our usual banter when Janette suddenly piped up. With a boldness we had never seen, she shook her finger at me and said, “You’d better get right, or you’re going to get left behind and go to hell!”

Her outburst caught us all completely off guard. I was laughing so hard on the inside, stunned by her sudden fire. Looking back, that moment of neurological crossing-of-wires revealed the one thing that remained solid even as her memory faded: her concern for the soul.

Months later, Janette was officially diagnosed. By the time my oldest daughter graduated high school, Janette was in memory care. From there, it was only a matter of time.

Janette knew Jesus. She believed in Him with all her heart, soul, and strength. And even though her mortal body shut down, she is not gone. In fact, I would argue Janette is more alive now than she ever was on this earth. Eleven years ago, her body and mind were in a state of decay. Today, she is perfect. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye—as the Apostle Paul wrote—God made Janette new. Paul said that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. One moment she was trapped in a failing shell; the next, she was standing in the presence of God.

For me, that is the heartbeat of Easter. It means restoration for Janette, and it means renewal, resurrection, and reunion for us. We have Jesus to thank for that. My heart still aches wishing Henry had claimed that same hope. I shared the Good News with him, but I don't know if he ever opened the door.

Through Christ Jesus, while we still have breath in our lungs, we have the opportunity to say "yes" to God and "yes" to being made whole. Janette made that choice. I can only hope Henry did, too, before his final breath. If you haven’t made that choice, I urge you to do it now. Like Janette and Henry, none of us know when our final breath will be.

So, I ask you as we approach this holy season: What does Easter mean to you? Is it just a basket of candy, or is it the key to your eternal home?