The brain works how it will, and mine wakes before me and stirs the breakfast pot of fear and dread porridge. It works how it will, and there seems to be no breaking from its routine.
Today, for some reason, there were echoes and vibrations from the world. Easter weekend and people off to find just the right things to wear off to churches and family dinners, thinking of the conversations they want to have and probably those they don't want to have but know will be coming despite their intentions to go and leave the bodies untouched and the ghosts unmolested. They will be awakened anyway and their demons will rise up just as surely as they believe or hope to believe that the Son of God rose up on Easter Sunday.
It probably predates the very first Easter weekend, before it was called Easter weekend, but I imagine that on this date in the Year 0 (ironically named and measured by the very people that killed their god) that the world was filled with dread and fear of what this day 2017 years ago would bring. The disciples and assorted followers had just seen the Son of God abased and tortured and nailed to long planks, and a spear jabbed cruelly into his body. They were scattered into the surrounding area to hide in caves and down narrow alleys and behind closed doors.
Who would be next, because surely there would be a next and a next after that? What good could this day bring in a world where the most powerful had defiled and murdered the man who might bring peace? How long could it be before doors would be kicked down and they would be dragged out to the hill to be held accountable for following this... this man? What could he possibly be if his all powerful Father had allowed him to be abused in such a way? Could their even be a Son of God, let alone a god at all? I can't imagine that their faith in anything good in the world could withstand such an insult. Could they believe that he would be reborn the very next day and rise up again? They were all only human, after all, and when have humans not had fear?
My own fears seem so petty and small, but it still feels like at any moment, the door will be kicked open and I will be dragged undressed into the street to be tried and held accountable for... something. The rational part of my brain, still stirring and muttering, knows that there is nothing in this day that can't be addressed with some practical movement or action so why is my dread so out of alignment with this knowledge?
Why am I afraid?
Why do I keep looking at the door?
There is work to be done.