I really don't think God was disappointed with me even though she thought it was dumb.
I had a talk with a close friend of mine a few weeks before Easter. We both admitted that we were struggling with certain issues: me with self-worth, and her with believing God's love. I knew that I was a broken man, but it became very real to me then. I saw that our intrinsic brokenness runs deep. The difference between who I was and who I wanted to be formed a chasm deeper than I had realized.
I anticipate, then, when I will only worship him. Not that I wish death upon myself, but that this brokenness weighs so heavily upon my soul. It can drench me in cold jealousy, or swell up a festering pride, or cast a goodness-halting doubt in an instant. I do not wish it; I hate it very much. This is why I anticipate when my only desire and duty is to glorify.
The Saturday before the red letter day I went down to the coffeehouse five minutes to midnight and ordered a double latte, and then I sat on the steps of my school's student center. A magnificent storm was in the distance, and lighting occasionally lit up the warm air. I very much anticipated twelve, not because of the hot steamed milk and espresso within my hands, but because the resurrection was a proof to me this year:
That my brokenness was not final, that brokenness and death can be overcome.
The latte was good, and rich and sweet. And the resurrection was real, just like any other year. But this time I anticipated it, and needed it.