I went to bed last night thinking, “This is it. This is when, all those years ago, the disciples couldn’t stay awake in the garden.”
I wondered how long that night was for Jesus.
I woke up this morning weighted down by the truth of what today commemorates. The day the Love of my Life gave up His life for me. Because I abandoned Him. Because I called out for his blood. Because I needed a rescuer.
How good it is. How is it good?
I walked into Shannon’s room. “Where would he be, do you think?”
“Jesus?” (That’s how you know a good friend. One who can pick up on what I mean with NO context)
“Yeah. He had to go to Pilot, Herod, back to Pilot and on the cross….”
I’m just thinking of the last day he spent on earth before the resurrection. About the pain and trials and the stations of the cross. And there is this deep remembering in me.
I’ll be honest: I’m sitting in the library right now fighting off the ugly cry. I’m supposed to be researching and I’ll get back to that, but in this moment, I needed to take a moment.
To remember. To write down. To think how devastating the thought is – and I live on the other side, the side that knows this isn’t the end of the story. To be grateful for seasons so that my finite little mind can hold in just some of what it means to be loved and saved and treasured and protected and to mourn the loss. The loss of the King. With the great reminder that it is Friday. And on Friday, He willingly, sacrificially, perfectly died. On Friday, the sky turned red.
(But Sunday is coming. )