I was so ready to jump straight from one season and into the next, so fixated on being “healed” or “not healed,” on being “ready” or “not ready” for this and that. And I’m learning that it’s not about being in or out, healed or broken, ready or not ready. Life doesn't play by these rules, and seasons of growth aren't that easily separated.
I thirst for arrival and perfection and readiness, but I think the Lord is just saying, “This is your life, babe. It’s going to be messy. My sanctifying work isn't complete yet but it will be. Just breathe and fall on me. Trust me with today."
I was so ready to jump straight from one season and into the next, so fixated on being “healed” or “not healed,” on being “ready” or “not ready” for this and that. And I think I’m learning that it’s not about being in or out, healed or broken, ready or not ready. Life doesn't play by these rules, and seasons of growth aren't that easily separated.
I pulled into the driveway and rolled my window down and everyone cheered. Y’all, it was literally the best. My heart wanted to explode with contentment and joy and hope, and I knew: this is what healing feels like.
This is what life and resurrection and freedom feels like.
To be welcomed home, to be celebrated, to be satisfied and still while exploding and reaching for the sky at the same time.
Today, Jesus’ body is dead. Like, all day long. His earthly shell is wrapped in a clean, linen shroud and his dead weight is laid in a stone, cold tomb. His body feels no pain, no emotions, no sensations. Dead, lifeless, still.
I’m not sure how to reconcile this. It’s not easy to weave words into a day that’s penetrated by silence.
I’m not sure what to say except this--something had to die.
This week, we’ve walked through hosannas, hangovers, storms, thresholds, and shame. And today—on Good Friday—we walk in the dark.
Today, the innocent rebel is scourged, stripped, and slayed. There is so much blood today—coursing from his temples, his wrists, his back, his spirit.
Dear no one in particular and everyone,
I’m wrestling with being loved. It's Thursday, and as I explore the darkness of my humanity, I am ashamed.
I look into the eyes of my savior on trial, firelight flickering between us, and I know that I will fail Him. I already have.
We pause and gather around, watching and shuddering, marveling that He might have the audacity to step across. To do the unthinkable.
We watch the face of the donkey-rider, the foot-washer, the table-turner. The Human. The Healer. The Mystery. We see the calm of his resolve, the moment of surrender. We see the tortuous struggle of decision, the anxious drops of life blood already soaking the dust.
And on this Tuesday of Easter week, I can’t look away, even though I want to.
I can’t help but notice the withered fig tree, the vacant room of overturned tables, the whispers of religious leaders, the clinking of change in Judas’ pocket, the woman with the perfume giving everything she has—hints of the disaster and deliverance.