For several years after my brother died, he would visit my dreams. I'm not sure, but I think this is a fairly common occurrence.

In some dreams, he would return from the dead, still dead. I would ask him why he died. I would tell him about life without him (making it sound a little better than it was so not to make him sad). I would ask him about heaven.

The conversation was easy. It flowed. I didn't push any of his buttons. He didn't push any of mine. We had mature adolescent conversation, if such a thing exists.

In other dreams, he would return from the dead alive. My family would get a message from the hospital stating some horrible mistake combined with an amazing miracle would be bringing my brother back after months or years of death. In preparation for his return, no one quite knew how to appropriately celebrate his resurrection. Family gathering, celebrations with friends, clean homes, and 7000 helium balloons didn't seem to capture the spirit of our joy. We were incredulous but firm in our hope. It strikes me that even in my subconscious, in my sleep, I am limited in my expression of my joy. It is as though I have an underdeveloped vocabulary for joy expression.

Easter, in it deepest emotional meaning, reminds me of that second dream. I don't even have to see Christ to be simultaneously incredulous and certain. Yet again, the expression of my joy seems limited to good food and fantastic renditions of my favorite hymns. I'm not fully capable of communicating the deep shift in perspective that this resurrection brings to my life.

I suspect that this inability will stick with me until my humanity is perfected in heaven. For now I can only imagine what freedom to truly celebrate is like.

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