Easter mistakes or: How it sometimes takes more than three days to rise again

I really like Easter weekend. It's better than Christmas, in my opinion. You get a bunch of time off work, except you don't have to spend it visiting everyone you've ever met, and you can just stay in eating M&Ms and mini-eggs, watching Raiders of the Lost Ark and laughing. 

There are some particular significances, for me, as well. As I write, on Easter Saturday 2020, it is eleven  years since Easter Saturday 2009. Which was quite a day, and not just because David Tennant was on TV, sharing chocolate eggs with strangers on a bus in space. 

Eleven years ago today I was in the middle of a very, very big mistake. 

Have you ever done that thing where you rush madly towards something, absolutely convinced that it's a good idea? Everything feels right, the music is playing in your head and there's no way that this is anything other than the most glorious, triumphant conclusion to all your wishes and desires?

Well, I'd done that. I'd run towards a number of things over the preceding twelve months. If you've seen Braveheart, try to imagine that bit where Mr. Braveheart runs at all the bad English guys, utterly confident of his ability to take them all on and chop their stupid racist heads off. 

If you've not seen it, try to imagine a very stupid Yorkshireman staggering around with a bottle of wine, getting engaged to someone for no good reason and then buying her a house. He doesn't chop anyone's head off, although you may be forgiven for thinking that his own brain has been removed. 

It wasn't a good idea, you see. The engagement was not a happy one for either participant. I became increasingly miserable and angry, and all my previous confidence melted away like the butter of optimism on the... um... toast... of... erm… realising that you can't even stand going on holiday with someone, let alone spending the rest of your life with them. 

Good metaphor. Wonder if it will catch on?

So, anyway. Easter Saturday found me very much on a cross of my own making. That's right - I'm comparing my suffering to that of Jesus. Except in this case Jesus isn't the Son of God. He's a cretin. And he's the one who made the cross. And bought the nails. And spent ages trying to hammer nails into himself, even though all his friends were saying, "That's probably not the best idea. Plus, how are you going to do the last hand?"

I didn't want to get married, but here I was with a wedding all booked and planned. I didn't want to share a home with this person, but, oh look, there's a big expensive house with both our names on the mortgage. I was scared of alienating everyone I knew because of my stupidity, and I was terrified of the emotional damage this would cause a number of people, and the way this damage would ripple out and bounce off surfaces, and hurt and hurt again. 

Eleven years later, this seems like no decision at all. The disruption caused, the ensuing depression, the several years of battles through solicitors - all that was worth it, to make the right decision in the end. 

But at the time, this seemed insanely difficult. Impossible, even. I only made it due to the help of a few friends who, quite wisely, encouraged me to take the right path. "You are an idiot," they said, "But this is not a new thing for you, and we expect you to continue living."

A few months ago I had a conversation with someone who'd made a mistake of their own. They were in a bad place, and couldn't see any way out. Could not envisage any time in the future when this mistake would not be the defining feature of who they were. 

And I was able to say, "Great news. I am also incredibly stupid, and have made many stupid decisions. But behold - I am still alive, and have an amazing collection of BluRays and action figures! So, you see, there is hope!" They did not look as reassured as you might have wanted, if I'm honest, but maybe these things take time. 

It might have seemed flippant to compare myself to Jesus earlier, but it wasn't without reason. There's something very significant, isn't there, about that story - of failure and the death of all hope. Of even the Son of God going through the worst of times, and trusting that this, also, shall pass. We can do that. Our defeats are not, necessarily, the end of us.

Not because we're 'fighters' or 'winners'. That kind of narrative is weak and helps us not one jot. We're losers, and fools, and we get things wrong. But those things don't define us forever. My particular tomb - made up of depression, financial loss and legal struggles  - lasted about three years. Bits of it linger, I suppose, and I can still get pretty angry about some of the injustices that never really found resolution. 

But, I got out of that tomb. Thanks to my friends. Thanks to some good luck. Thanks to time. 

And thanks to the story of a God who fell, and died, and lost the battle. And somehow got better anyway. 

Happy Easter