Death is ugly. So many times, the word “peaceful” is used, but I’m here to assure you, that death is in fact, horrifically ugly. It’s painful. It smells. It’s visceral to each of our senses. Death is ugly. The spiritual side is horrific too. The Orthodox Church believes that your soul and your body separate at death, which is the unnatural part about living in the fallen world after Adam, Eve, and that shiny apple. That separation is painful too. It’s described as a ripping away, a wrenching apart.

So there’s nothing peaceful about death.

And the repair of death isn’t peaceful either. It couldn’t be. You can’t clean the floor without dirtying the mop, right? If my patient’s heart stops, I break ribs to restart it. I force air in their lungs. I put needles in their skin, catheters in their urethra, all while literally pounding and jumping on their chest. Have you seen a picture of a hospital room after a code? It makes those Saw movies look tame.

Western Easter is this weekend, and this year, Orthodox Palm Sunday as well. It’s when those celebrations of Christ’s resurrection fall on the same weekend or close to each other that I dwell a bit more. I never understood the celebration of Western Easter. It’s… pretty. I always thought that was the tom boy in me. I don’t do pretty very well. I enjoy baseball and hiking. Guess I’m good with dirt. But pretty? It’s never something I’ve been good at or enjoyed much. But as a nurse, I think I’ve come to a different understanding. Easter is a stark contrast with the Orthodox celebration, Pascha. Easter is pastels and candy. Pascha is red and gold and meat. As a nurse, that resonates a bit more with me. Christ died. He emptied Hades. He conquered death itself. Death is ugly, fixing death is ugly, but the conquering of death is viciously ugly. It’s the knocking down of Hades’ brass gates. It’s the smashing of chains. It’s the earth shaking. It’s the sun eclipsing. It’s loud. It’s raucous. It’s deafening. It’s unapologetic. It’s—powerful.

Every day I am faced with the power of death. I can only imagine the power of its conqueror.