Bluebird Day

I’ve lived in Utah for 26 years and skied zero times (but I own a ski mask for snow blowing). I think every other resident of Utah skis, which is why I accidentally know the term “bluebird day”. A bluebird day is a blue skied, cloudless, sunny day that usually follows a snowstorm. For the elite that own snow pants, it means prime ski conditions. For me, it’s just a beautiful reward for enduring bad weather.

Easter always feels like a bluebird day to me.

Christ’s last mortal week was full of bad weather: that weighted last look over Jerusalem before His triumphal entry, Judas’ betrayal, sleeping apostles while he oozed from every pore, unjust accusations, an unfair trial, carrying His cross alone, a bloody crown of thorns, torn and whipped flesh, nails and a sword, vinegar, watching his family weep as they watched Him hang and die. Yet all of that was surpassed Sunday morning when, whole and radiant, He spoke to witnesses at the empty tomb.

I think of Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin’s words concerning the first Easter Sunday and the calm gift it was after Friday’s devastation:

Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. In this life or the next, Sunday will come.

Me: Archer, why do you think it’s called Good Friday?

Archer: Because it was good for us.

The promise that every storm will end? Pretty good indeed.

Photo of a bluebird day as seen from my deck. I mean it—I didn't photoshop out a single wisp of cloud.