It is Good Friday.
I’m preparing to head to church and as I write this I’m thinking about things and trying to keep things in perspective, but it’s a dark and rainy day and I’m recalling last night . . . just as the service had ended and the church had been stripped of all the beautiful linens and other sacred things and left bare and plain something remarkable happened. At that very moment the storm outdoors magnified and as the sanctuary went dark the loudest clap of thunder and lightning was heard as though to wake us up to all that was to come . . .
I know that Easter will soon be here and that beauty and joy will return SPLENDIDLY, but just now I find I’m focused on death on a rough wooden cross. I am wondering what they did with it after Jesus was placed in the tomb? Did they cast lots for it to recycle its wood as they did for His clothing? It was raw wood and surely stained with His blood . . . “it is finished” He said. It is finished . . . and yet, it truly had only just begun.