Could there be a better day to break the radio silence on my blog? Probably. But the urge and the time rarely come at the same time these days.
I woke up this morning mentally planning out my morning to make sure I left room to sit, be still, think, pray and reflect. It’s kind of programmed into me to take notice of days like today and to aspire for some sort of revelation, or something? As the morning drew closer to Lydie’s nap time, I started to ask, Why do I want to/feel the need to reflect today? I don’t slow down to ask these questions as often as I used to anymore. I find myself slipping back into the programmed sort of thinking; the striving. I let this question just sit for awhile and allowed my mind to wander. And then sure enough I began to wander. The to-do lists started to pick back up, etc. etc. and then my eyes were drawn and locked on the picture I have of Brooklyn on my bathroom counter. It felt like that picture was speaking to my Spirit in a language that only the two of them really knew. I just stood there for a while letting it all happen in my heart.
I walked away with the memory of one of the first excruciating days after Brooklyn’s death. I was laying in bed, in our small, humid bedroom at our old rent house feeling like I was going to drowned from the pain of not having Brooklyn here any more. I sobbed. I wailed. I pounded the sheets with my fists. I squirmed uncomfortably from the weight of the pain. Somehow the physical movement felt like a tiny bit of release from the deep, deep sadness. Words never quite do any of this justice. In my despair all that kept entering my mind was Jesus on the cross. I don’t know exactly know how Mary and his disciples felt that day, but how could it have been anything short of devastating? I can’t even imagine the anguish Mary experienced watching her son be beaten to a pulp and then nailed onto a scratchy tree. I’m not sure the word trauma would quite cover what that woman experienced that day. As for the disciples, all their dreams and hopes were dashed. They had risked everything for this man. They had counted on him. They believed him. They must have felt foolish. They must have felt betrayed. They probably sobbed, wailed, cowered and maybe even pounded or squirmed their way through that horrendous evening and into the lonely hours of the early morning.
That day in my bedroom, blinds and curtains drawn, Good Friday came for me. It reached into the messy, tangle of sheets and tear stained pillows. All of a sudden, Christ’s willingness to go to the cross became so very personal. Without His sacrifice, I would never have the hope of some day, in some way, being reunited with Brooklyn. It was no longer theory or a story I had been told time and time again; it was my life line.
That day comfort came in the cross and a seed of gratitude was planted deep in my heart; woven into my very being. So I reflect today not to receive some new insight or revelation, but remember why Good Friday truly is good and give thanks.