Hello, everyone! We are halfway through the "Our Blessed Friends" stories and thought I would take this rainy Monday afternoon to share with you a reflection I came across recently. I thought it was very beautiful and wanted to share it with you all - hopefully your hearts are moved as much as mine was when I read it!
At the Cross
I stumble up the hill before me, slipping up so often that I’m drenched in rain and covered in mud by the time I reach the summit. My hands ache with the cold as the whistling wind whips my hair into my face. I see a flash of blue flying through the air, and as I catch the familiar piece of fabric, I realize it is my veil having been torn violently from my head. Hoping no one caught sight of my exposed caramel mop of hair, I wrap the scarf increasingly tighter around my head, tying it firmly beneath my chin.
The crowd is thick surrounding three wooden posts upon the hill. Jeers are barely audible above the thunder as I push my way haphazardly through the crowd. Normally, I’d take care to avoid any uncleanliness that these prosecutions often attract, but it is impossible to think of something so trivial anymore.
As much as the crowd is pressed upon one another, I can make distinctions as to who’s who. The Sadducees and Pharisees remain standoffish, yet sickeningly reveling in their success. The Jews have split off into two sides. The majority are taunting the man who has become a spectacle. The rest are a mess of weeping women, stone-faced men, and the children who had unfortunately been brought into the horror of the day. Somehow, the children seem calmest. One boy of short stature with bright green eyes holds his mother’s hand encouragingly, pointing to the Heavens and whispering softly about the Father. Another child, only a toddler, grasps a thorny branch as if it were her prized possession. Her father quickly steals it away, but upon recognizing it is a branch from the Master’s crown, is overcome with emotion and treasures it himself. Roman soldiers litter the area, pushing back the surge of people which threaten to overcome them.
Three of the Master’s followers, two women and a man, fall to their knees at the foot of the cross. The soldiers attempt every means of moving them, but it is as if their legs are attached to the ground’s muddy surface. They push, drag, and pull, yet the three remain unmoved, both in their faith and position.
By now, there is a distinct crescent in which the mass surrounds the cross, leaving the bare amount of room required by the soldiers. And finally, oh finally, I arrive at the front. Dead center before my Lord as my eyes dare to look upon his mutilated figure.
What joy and horror arise within me. I cry out involuntarily, but no one notices. Here is my Lord, my hope and salvation. I’m so close that I can feel his energy pulsating from all the parts of his body. His fingertips and toes radiate a light that I cannot explain, only that it’s pure and blinding, and I can’t tear my eyes away. Blood paints his muscular body. The travel and work of these past few months of ministry, along with being a carpenter’s son, have made him strong. And in His weakness, in the scratches adorning his face and the nails piercing his extremities, His strength is made that much more present. No matter how much pain streaks my Savior’s face, his eyes are at peace. They swirl, constantly changing colors, but each is as vibrant as the last, assuring me that this is part of the Father’s plan, that all will be okay. I wish I could sing and dance, knowing that all will turn out well. But at the same time, I begin to doubt.
My Lord is so sad, and I yearn to comfort him. His eyes momentarily focus on each and every person within the crowd. Sometimes his face softens in relief, as if He knows that soul is in the right place, but other times it tightens in anguish, the pain of the cross becoming increasingly impossible to bear, and I can tell those are the lost souls he sees, the poor sinners. If only I could make all this pain vanish, but I can’t. I’m powerless to. In fact, I’m reminded how I am the pain. My sins have pierced my one and only true love. I am unforgivable, aren’t I? And I cannot fathom how the Savior can return. Is this it? Will all be lost as He takes his final breath? There are some things that seem so clear in Him, yet for others, I am at a total loss.
“Oh, Lord!” my heart shouts. It writhes and screams and nearly leaps out of my chest with one question, one question alone, “Why have you forsaken me?”
Just as I think the words, Jesus softly exhales them into the wind. Has anyone heard him? The three disciples have. I can tell as they bow ever more deeply, and the women resound their soft crying. But the words, my words, the Scriptures’ words, they strike me.
It is then that my eyes meet His. He knows. He understands. I’ve never been so certain as I am now that he can comprehend the ins and outs of human life, the highs and lows, joys and struggles. He knows that the sight of blood as a child, even from a small scrape, can terrify you. He knows the fear of talking to someone new, of being insecure to the point of paralysis. But He also knows the joy of a genuine hug from a friend. He knows the soft caress of a mother, tending to her infant. He knows hunger and thirst, both spiritual and physical suffering. In fact, He knows it all better than I do. I was never certain of this before, but now I am, for in His eyes there is no judgement, as there should be for my doubts. Rather, there is love. Infinite, undeniable, faithful love. It envelopes and enflames me, and I long to share it with the world.
But the Master doesn’t want me for the world. He wants me for me.
I begin to try to speak, but the words never leave my tongue. They form themselves and reshape several times, yet I’m rendered speechless. So, I resign to listening, not of my own accord, but of God’s.
“May I…” He struggles to breathe, “be yours?”
Mine? My innermost being ponders these words. Who am I to claim possession over our Lord? And what does it mean? What am I expected to do if I accept such a role?
“Only if I am yours,” I reply, freely giving myself and all my dreams, hopes, desires, turmoil, and peace to the Christ.
Then, He lifts his head to those around Him and releases his final breath, “It is finished.”
The now frail body slumps inhumanly against the cross as a disturbing mix of wails and cheers break out behind me. But I respond differently than the rest. I have a mission.
