Merry Christmas, Mr. Friend...

A few days ago, I had the most extraordinary visit with my dear neighbor, Mr. Friend. I don't know if he thought it was extraordinary. But it knocked me right out of the ordinary, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

It was my first visit to see Mr. Friend since his older brother, age 96, passed away after a long illness with a lot of suffering. Now, our Mr. Friend is the last surviving sibling of a group of ten. His siblings were very close growing up and throughout their lives. He seems to be handling this well, but I told him that it makes me think of my own group of eleven kids. One of the things they love about being in a big family is the idea that they will never have to be alone in life unless they want to be. There will always be someone to call, to help, to live with, to rely on in an emergency. Really thinking it through to the time that one of our children might be 93-years-old and all alone out of all our immediate family made me get all teary, and made him get all teary, and then we shared a hug and cried a little more before wiping our eyes, smiling, and going on to a more cheerful subject... Christmas!

Me: "So, are you going to be going out anywhere on Christmas?"
Mr. Friend: "Well... I certainly hope not! My niece wants me to go with her to her family. But, driving all that way south of the cities on bad roads and in snow storms...  they keep bugging me about it and think it would be good for me!"
Me, smiling: "That's because we all love you. Everyone wants you to come over."
Mr. Friend: "Yes, well. But, Christmas is just for kids anyway. All that...'what gift for him'... 'what gift for her'...  even for the adults! All that money! And parents telling lies all the time to make their kids behave... it's just not right. All that Santa stuff, I mean. "
Me, laughing: "Well, OK. I'll just call you Scrooge and NOT tell you we were hoping you might come over for dinner the day after Christmas, that's when we are doing our dinner. It was OK at Thanksgiving, wasn't it?"
Mr. Friend, laughing: "Well, I guess that's ok. It was good to catch up. But, I don't like going out anymore in the bad weather."

(We sat quietly together for a little bit.)

Mr. Friend, talking again: "What I don't understand is why we give presents at Christmas to our own families and make a big fuss. They didn't have anything like Christmas at all when Jesus was alive or his disciples either. Someone told me that. Is there something in the Bible about people giving presents to Jesus? I thought I remembered that and that would be ok, to give presents to Jesus."

Me, surprised: "Well, yes! Don't you know that part? I'm not sure that's why we give gifts to each other, but yes...  Wise men from the East... traveling far...following the star... bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the new baby King. The great King of the Jews they knew had been born because they saw his star when it rose in the East?"

(Me thinking to myself, wow... how DID they know so much about that, believe it enough to travel to Israel?? They saw a star and knew a King had been born in Israel??)

Mr. Friend: "Yes, I think I remember something about that, but I didn't know if that was a real part or part of the made-up part of the story. You know how people are always making stories bigger and bigger, and I know they make up parts on the TV when they show it on TV. Do you think any of that really happened? Or do you think people just made it up."
Me: "I do! I think it is the Truest Story that's ever been told! I really do. I mean that with all my heart... I think the parts that are in the Bible are the real story."

We talked a little bit on a historical level about there being no doubt that Jesus was a real person, and that we know when he lived, and that it's supported not only from inside the Bible, but from other known history as well. He guessed that was right. He believes the Bible, he just thinks a lot of people mess up what is in the Bible and what isn't – an opinion I certainly share.

Mr. Friend; "Well, Ok, then. What part of the Christmas story is in the Bible then?"

And so, hardly believing it could be true that this 93-year-old Swedish farmer really didn't know the Christmas story, I tried to organize my thoughts so I could tell this True Story in the right way, even if I did have to tell it from memory and figure out where to begin.

I told him about part of the story being in the Gospel of Luke. And part of the story being in the Gospel of Matthew. And an important thing about this True Story is that it doesn't start Once Upon a Time like a fairy tale. It starts at a very specific time, with real Emperors and real Kings and other known people mentioned in written histories and old documents. And both Luke and Matthew tell us a lot about Jesus's family... his family goes back to King David (have you heard of King David? Sort of? Ok)... and even back further to Abraham, and Noah, and Adam. It even lists some of the mothers in the genealogy, which is unusual. The genealogies tell us that the human family of Jesus was very real, he has a real history and he came to us here in a real place and a real time. And it's a time in history you can figure out because of Roman history and how good they were at keeping records.

Me: "Is this all making sense?"

Mr. Friend shrugs, but sits up close to listen and makes a "go on" motion with his hand.

"Ok. Well, that's one reason Jesus ended up in Bethlehem anyway, because the Romans were taking a census and were making people travel all over the place to make sure they got counted properly. Mary and Joseph travelled to Bethlehem together, because of the census. Well, wait.. I don't think Mary really had to be there, Joseph had to go back to his original hometown. But maybe Joseph didn't want to leave her at home, or maybe she didn't want to be left at home... you know, because of the scandal of her being pregnant before they were married. But really, she did have to be there... because of the prophecies about where the Messiah was going to be born. They weren't thinking about the prophesies, it's just that there really are dozens, maybe hundreds of prophesies about Jesus in the old testament and some of the interesting things about the Christmas story happened just the way the prophesies said it would happen. Some of the prophesies are mentioned specifically in the Gospels when they are telling this story."

Mr. Friend, very interested: "Well. I wondered how he ended up in such an out of the way place!"

Me, trying again to organize my thoughts: "Right. So right when he was born, in Bethlehem... angels, a lot of angels, appeared to some shepherds who were nearby in some fields with their sheep, at night time. And the angel of the Lord told them the good news about the baby's birth, a Savior who is Christ the Lord, and they told the shepherds to go and find the baby lying in a manger - and they went to find him right away and did find him - just like the angels had said... they found Mary and Joseph and a baby lying in a manger. This is the part you always see in Nativity scenes."

He nods. I still can't believe he doesn't already know this story by heart. I'm wondering what I'm leaving out.

Me:"Ok, so the part you are asking about is actually in the other book, in Matthew's book. He tells the story about wise men who see a star and somehow know that a child has been born who will be King of the Jews. They travel a long distance to find this King, and they assume that the King of the Jews will be in Jerusalem, so they go to the palace in Jerusalem and ask to see the child... and the interesting thing is... they want to worship the child! They somehow know that this child is not just a normal baby. They seem to know this child is the long awaited Messiah that the Jewish people have been waiting for..."

(I'm getting sort of choked up telling this story at this point. It is an amazing experience telling this story to someone who really hasn't heard it before! Telling it like it is real news! It's pretty amazing news and an incredible story!)

Me, continuing: "But, here is the bad part. There is no new baby king in Jerusalem, and the king the wise men went to see was a very wicked king. He was very concerned about this news and seemed to believe it was true right away. He found out from his advisors where the Christ was to be born, where he would be, according to the scriptures. They told him it would be in Bethlehem, where Jesus really was... and then the wicked king told the wise men to go find the baby and come back and tell him where the baby could be found. The wicked king told the wise men he wanted to worship the baby, too. But he was really lying about that. He actually wanted to destroy the baby, so his own kingship wouldn't be threatened. "

Mr. Friend, eyes wide... shocked!

Me, tears in my eyes: "I know! He was a very wicked man. So the wise men DO find baby Jesus and they do bring him presents of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Royal gifts, for a King, not just for a baby. Well, he probably wasn't a little tiny baby anymore - this was some time after his birth, I think. I've heard that his star appeared when he was born, and that is why the wicked king asked what time the star appeared - so he could do this next thing. I don't even want to tell you, because it is really, really bad. Anyway, the wise men are warned in a dream from God not to go back to the wicked king and they don't go back, but the bad king does the next part anyway. The wicked king sent soldiers to Bethlehem and told them to kill all the baby boys up to the age of 2 years old... (I'm holding back tears and Mr. Friend is on the edge of his seat)  - and they did it. They really did kill those baby boys.

(The horror of this is really hitting me. Mr. Friend can't believe it. He obviously has never heard of this before).

Mr. Friend: "But Jesus!? What?"

Me, remembering the next part. "No, no, he's ok. He got away. God sent a dream to Joseph to tell him to take the boy, his mother , and himself and go away to Egypt. He had dreams from God before and they had all come true, and so, I think the Bible says they left -  right that night of the dream... they got up and left and so they weren't there when the soldiers came."

Mr. Friend, looking relieved but still listening for all he's worth.

Me: "Well, you know we were talking about the gifts that people brought to Jesus? There is a tradition that Joseph used the gold to finance their travel to Egypt, but I don't know if that part is true. There is another tradition about the frankincense that I don't remember. And I think that the myrrh was possibly used during his burial, when he was crucified, before he rose from the dead. That part is tradition. The gifts aren't mentioned again in the Bible that I know of. Anyway - they stayed in Egypt until Joseph had another dream that it was safe to go back home, that's the real Bible story again. The evil king had died. But they didn't go back to Bethlehem, they went back to a town called Nazareth, where Joseph and Mary lived before going to Bethlehem. And that actually fulfilled another prophesy, because the Old Testament tells that the Christ shall be called a Nazarene. It really is neat how many things about the birth of Jesus can be found in the prophesies. It helps us believe that it is true."

By the end of this - we both had tears in our eyes again, and he said. "Well, I really hope it's all true. I mean all of it. I think about it every day. I have a lot of questions as soon as I see Jesus."

I asked him if I could pray for him.

Mr. Friend: "Well, what do I have to do?"

Me: "Nothing. You just have to hold my hands and don't worry if you can't hear me very well with my head bowed down. God can hear me."

Mr. Friend, held out his hands.

After that we were both sort of crying again. It was a very tearful visit! Nothing like any other visit of all our visits in the past 13 years. We went on to talk about a lot of things that he was wondering about. Some questions I could answer. Some questions I couldn't answer. All questions that Jesus can answer. Lord, please answer all his questions!!

And then we went on to talking about cell phones! Because he had been wondering about that as well.

Did I think he could learn to use one?

Yes.

So I showed him how easy it is to make a call to my "Favorites". I showed him how to check the weather. I had to teach him what kind of touch to use on the touch screen. Just touch the App lightly. The what? The App. What's an App? Well, think about it like a special TV channel. Each one does it's own specific thing. One is a clock. One is the weather. One is a compass. One is for games. This one is for photos and this one is a camera! Yes, a camera.

And we took Mr. Friend's first selfie.

And he agreed to at least think about coming over for dinner, because it doesn't hurt to think about things.

I certainly left his home thinking about things.

It was an extraordinary visit.

                                                     ~Sara~

Unexpected thaw

Unexpected thaw

The frozen giants were surprised to hear the dripping water.
        The gentle sounds creep into sylvan dreams.

     
The spluttering rivulets.

              
The burble of little streams cutting through the ice along the road.

Squirrels swoop up their tails to dance across the softening snow, 

     stopping in dramatic pose to sniff the sweetness on the air. 

            On tiptoes, they leap, avoiding puddles in their daily path.

The trickles barely graze the woody minds. 

     Like distant sounds of breakfast way downstairs on Sunday morning. 

           Dozing, while joyful sun is dancing through the window. 

                The cozy warmth and brightness keep eyelids closed.

That bright sun bathes the frozen, sleeping giants with a rosy-orange glow.  

        Warmth begins to seep into the heartwood; 

                 bark expands as sap begins to flow.  

Content, the giants murmur in their sleep.

Birds swoop out to meet the southern wind.

      Wild melody bursts out in empty landscape,  

           the bird himself surprised to hear the sound.  

                  

                     A hush follows, solemn and still.  

       

       After a moment far longer than an echo, 

             the song is heard repeated far away.

All the while, the water droplets drip, the drips turn into rivulets, 

          the rivulets begin to widen into pools and puddles all around.

A SPLASH as children run after the dog. 

          Splash and stomp and soak the boots clean through.

The laugher bounces here and there, then fades.

The trees begin to itch to stretch their spines, 

          extend their limbs, 

                and crack their bony knuckles. 

But wait, the frozen giants try to think…  it can't be time for Spring?

Just let me sleep a little more. 

         I’ll get up soon. 

                  I promise.

                                         ~Sara~   

            He sends out his command to the earth;

                        his word runs swiftly.

            He gives snow like wool;

                        he scatters frost like ashes.

            He hurls down his crystals of ice like crumbs;

                        who can stand before his cold?

            He sends out his word, and melts them;

                        he makes his wind blow and the waters flow.

                                                            ~Psalm 147:15-18

Sometimes, the driveway declares the glory of God...

Our older four children are away on a trip, so this week, driving the weekly trash to the corner fell to me. And since the oldest three boys home were helping me with the task, I couldn't leave the youngest four alone in the house. We all piled into the van. Adventure ensued as the kids, gloriously free from seat belts on our own long driveway, huddled in the back to make sure the two bungee-corded, wheeled-trashbins continued to follow the van down to the corner. A minute later, the boys jumped out, set the bins neatly on the side of the road and hopped back in, laughing, and proud of their work. 

It's been good for them to be the "older kids" this week. 

A glorious evening. 

We decided to drive a hundred yards further to visit our 91-year-old neighbor for a few minutes. The long way round to turn the van back to home. 

Our neighbor and I watched the kids play tag, and run shouting around the house, as beams of slanting sun shot long shadows at their feet. Moments like this I always turn to smile at our neighbor and try to imagine him running barefoot in the grass at dusk as well. He was ninth of ten growing up in that house after all. 

On the way back home, I drove, blinded by the sun, back to the west then turned right to go up our long gravel driveway. Trees, and weeds, and all manner of wild have grown up along the left side of the drive and I was struck by the darkness of the path. Here and there a beam of light would break through and shine a patch of shining light upon the ground. But largely, night had claimed the drive. If anything, the few beams of light only intensified the darkness.

I slowed before continuing back home, and thought... "Too bad we have to take this path, with all that sun still filling up the fields." 

Immediately, I thought of the past two years. 

We had to take that path. It was the only road. And although the sun still shone as bright as ever in the fields, sometimes the glimpses of light we saw only accentuated the darkness and the length of the road, curving on ahead to points unknown. And now, once having gotten used to the dimness of the path, it's a little hard to believe we have the freedom to get out again and walk back into the field and feel the heat of sun, and have even a minute to breathe again. We're shy and uncertain, even in the gentle evening light. 

I had someone send me a note the first year, urging me to write again, besides the CaringBridge reports. A kind note intended to encourage me. But, I just couldn't. I remembered all the promises of God, believed them more than ever in my bones, knew He was Good and True and Eternally Shining like the sun. Like the sun that shines the same whether we are blinded with glory facing West, or resting in the sunny field, or trudging down a dim uncertain road. But it's hard to speak that Praise out loud, or write it down, when hidden in the shade. 

Sometimes, even a driveway declares the glory of God.

                                                                                ~Sara~

The heavens declare the glory of God,
     and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours out speech,
     and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words,
     whose voice is not heard.
                 ~Psalm 19:1-3~

In hope, believe that peace will come again.

Face to the sea, with sun upon my back.

     I lean into the wind… steady, strong, and chill.

          The stinging spray rouses my numb soul.

I stand, just stand, and look.

Water so vast, so deep.

      Who can grasp the volume of the depths?  

           It scares me… just a bit… to think of all that weight.

Waves crash hard against the shore.

Foam escapes, rushing up to grasp at freedom from the pull.

          One gasp of breath and drawn back down

                    to join the clear gray green.

The rhythmic peace,

        untiring sound,

               lulls against the danger of that strength.

Sand and rocks upon the shore,

       as far as I can see.

I crouch to choose among the pebbles.

I’m small as sand beside those waves that crash the shore.

         Yet, I know the joy of the chosen.

                I know this, though all around may seem but cold and fog.

Keep me safe, O my God. Let me not be lost along the shore.

            Forgotten, kicked, and sifted by the sea.

     May I be as one plucked up and held tight in your hand.

            Saved for a purpose yet unseen.

And, so I stand, a witness to the wild dance of the shore.

The roar of wind and waves demands I listen.

           My weary soul obeys the call to rest.

     The setting sun, a warm wrap on my shoulders.

           The glow of home to come shines in the dusk.

Be still.

Breath deep.

In hope, believe that peace will come again. 

                     ~Sara~

Baby Hannah Irene

On August 15, 2012, we discovered that our youngest daughter–just three and a half months old–has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Her name is Hannah Irene and if you'd like to read about our journey with her and pray with us along the way, you can find our CaringBridge Journal here.

Maybe you will be encouraged, as we were, by the words a friend wrote to me and our whole family.

"In my darkest times of sickness, loss, and grief, the hope to which I clung is that God is Able. I love the story of Daniel's 3 friends, when facing the fiery furnace they said, "Our God is able to deliver us from your hand, even if he does not."

God is able to deliver Hannah from the hands of cancer, even if he doesn't. Every plan he has for her is good. No one but him knows the length of her days, and nothing can take her from this earth until all the purposes for her life have been fulfilled. "Every day ordained for her was written in your book before even one of them came to be."

May each of you find rest and comfort today in the merciful, mighty, and very able hands of Jesus."

We are held in His arms and blessed by the love of Christ expressed through the hands and feet, and prayers, of our dear Brothers and Sisters. Thank you to all of you.

~Sara~

So Teach Us to Number Our Days

One day, several months after our ninth baby Zac was born, I managed to get my four oldest kids close to tears after starting what seemed to be a happy conversation.

"Do you know that Mr. Friend was the ninth of ten children in his family?  He's just like baby Zac!  They lived right there in that house where he lives now.  They had even numbers, too–five boys and five girls, pretty close to our family."

Oh, everyone thought that was wonderful.  We all looked at Zac and made him laugh.  We thought about 87-year-old Mr. Friend being a happy baby with lots of big brothers and sisters. And they remembered happy and funny stories, too, that he has told us about his growing up time.

We talked about that for a while, and then 6-year-old Ben asked "But, if he's got all those brothers and sisters, why does he live alone?"

"Well, he never got married and he loved farming, so he lived with his mother and father all his life and helped them farm until they died a long time ago, and his brothers and sisters all got married and moved to homes of their own.  He ran that farm by himself for over thirty years.  And now eight of them have died and he has one brother still living, but he (we've met him) hasn't been feeling well lately and can't come over to visit anymore."

Ben took this in matter-of-factly and went on his way, but I looked up to see my older four children standing there wide-eyed and silent.  They were feeling it in their gut for the first time that eventually they too will grow up, their lives will unfold and they will be separated by time and place and circumstance and some way or another all of them would die.  And Mom and Dad, too!

Lydia broke the silence.  "But . . . that's so . . . sad!"

And there they were. Four children aged 15, 11, 10 and 8, near tears, looking at me and me looking back at them. Thinking.

It's rare that I sit across the table from my old friend in that quiet house, that tidy house, that bachelor's house, where he lives alone– and not try to imagine that space filled with five young men and five young women talking and laughing while they eat their meals. Their mother sitting to the side and watching her growing and grown children, catching most of their words while she turns to comment in Swedish to her husband.  In my mind the empty barn is filled again with sixty dairy cows and fifty, or sixty or one-hundred chickens and a dozen pigs are over in the yard. The diesel tractors parked in his garage are gently replaced by three teams of horses–the six of them the only animals with names on the farm. Except for the dogs, of course.

My friend grows young before my eyes as I hear stories from his youth–jumping from wood beam to wood beam on the lawn while his older brothers and father and friends built that big red barn in 1929 when he was 7-years-old. Or later, strong from daily work, when he could carry ten-gallon-pails of water in each hand to the pig pen fifty yards away from the pump. Or back further when he was a small boy, and his sister fell through the soggy land shelf by the stream in the wild area and they thought she'd drown–but they got her out safe and sound after all. Or when they'd all try to look busy doing something all the time (or at least keep out of sight) lest their dad would find some job for them to do, even the youngest set to work in the yard digging dandelions to get out every root. Or when four brothers were called up to serve in World War II, but the local draft board decided that my friend should stay at home and help their father farm, so our country would have enough to eat during the war.

Can you imagine the joy around that table the first time they ate together after all four brothers came back home alive from that war?

He tells me where they slept when they were all still living at home–here, there and everywhere in the house depending on the hunting season or the harvest and who needed to get up at 3:00am and who could sleep in until 5:00 or even 6:00.

I look at all the neatly placed cookware on the shelves, and pretty plates set up above, and the place where the pipe went through the wall when they used an old cook stove and wonder if his mother could ever imagine a time when that house would be still, and quiet, and tidy, and chores all finally, finally done and the house–now home to just one aged son–would nearly echo with the lack of busyness.  A dish or two a day now washed in that sink, and one glass used all day long. And though the laundry is no longer done by hand, the machine is only needed once a week or so.

Five sons and five daughters and a man and a wife once occupied these rooms where my friend has lived every day of his life and where he continues to live since he retired from farming but not from life. Just my friend and one older brother are left from that generation that built that house and farm.  But a patient  stream of nieces, nephews, neighbors and friends pull in and out of the yard through all his days.

And as I think these things, I remember that I really should not talk so long–for my own kids are back in our house around the curve in the road. A house not quiet, or tidy and with many chores still needing to be done! This is my time to go home and live it. I look over at the ninth child born to his house, while I hold the ninth child born to my house in my lap. Old, sparkling, blue-eyes are bringing laughter into young, blue-eyes from across the table top. Laughing myself, I rise to go.

It's hard to imagine a moment, let alone day after day when my house could ever be quiet, tidy and chores all finally, finally done.

Yet, it is a certain thing that this life is fleeting. Kevin helped me realize this from the start. When we were first left alone with minutes-old, firstborn Grace in the hospital, we were both looking at her sleeping in my arms with tears in our eyes. Then he quietly said, with his hand on her head, "Tomorrow she will be burying us." It was jarring. At first I couldn't even fit that into that moment, couldn't understand his words.  But I keep that in mind now that the days seem long, and the years seem short.  And as much as I want my children to grow up in the shelter and safe harbor of a happy and loving home, much more do I want their foundation and source of joy and security to rest upon unshakable and eternal realities so that when their life unfolds with its joys and trials and inevitable loss they will rest upon our sure hope in God.

O Lord, teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom. (Psalm 90:12)

                                  ~Sara~

This is our 9th baby Zac and my dear friend Mr. Irwin Falk (a.k.a. Mr. Friend) on one of our many visits to his home, a short-walk country next-door to ours. Zac was born in the summer of 2009. Zac is less than one-year-old in this picture. Irwin was 87-years-old. Irwin was the 9th of 10 in his family and lived in this home his entire life.

In loving memory: Irwin Falk  (September 27, 1922-August 3, 2019) 

So Teach Us to Number Our Days was included in the Chapel column of The Old Schoolhouse ® Magazine, Summer 2011. My writing agreement stipulated that I had to remove this article from my blog until six months after publication. I'm happy to be able to share it here again with friends and family. 

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls."  1 Peter 1:3-9

Irrepressible light on Good Friday...

Recently, I was thinking about the meaning of communion and the symbolism of His body broken for me, and His blood poured out for me, and unexpectedly I had an upwelling of love for our Lord Jesus and His sacrifice for us. It was wonderful for affections for Him to break through the mundane superficiality of my life and the experience was received as a gift. I knew there was nothing in me that had changed. He had opened my heart and I was grateful. Heading into Holy Week and Easter weekend I was hoping that by my own observance of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and then the joyful Resurrection Sunday that I could somehow recapture those feelings I had a few weeks ago, and also, somehow think deeply and dig deeply into my heart to get the whole picture of what He has done for us, for me. Instead–I've been sleep deprived, busy, irritable and distracted and I'm flying up to Easter with only surface attention to the passing days. How like God to give me a gift when it is obviously not of my own work and then let me see what happens when I try to "make" my own experience!

When I was in the middle of my deeper affections a few weeks ago, I found myself reading through the Passion Week scriptures and really noticing the experience of the women who were closest to Jesus. Oh, what love! What darkness they experienced to the core of their being! And finally, what joy! They followed Him to the cross; they watched the horror unfold; they clung together; they watched their last hope fade; they watched Him suffer on the cross; they stayed until He died from crucifixion; they watched as His death was confirmed with a spear thrust to the side; they stayed to see Him taken down; they followed to see Him laid in the tomb; they left to prepare spices and ointment as darkness fell; they observed the Sabbath and left the tomb alone for agonizing hours as He lay alone, His body unprepared; they came again to anoint His body as soon as they could possibly call it dawn; they arrived to find an empty tomb; they were greatly distressed; they received the good news and explanation of the resurrection from angels; one stayed and heard the Lord Himself speak her name; they returned to the disciples to share the news of the angels and with the report of seeing Him alive... only to be received as women speaking idle talk.

But–their story was confirmed–He appeared again, and again, and again.

They loved, they feared, they followed, they watched, they were devastated, they were confused, they grieved, they cared, they waited, they went to care for his body–all dark, dark days. I try to imagine the darkness of their grief, but it is well beyond my experience. Then they were the first to hear the good news from angels, to find the empty tomb on the third day . . . just as He promised. Mary, lingering and thinking that her grief had been compounded by enemies stealing her Lord's body, is instead called by name by the resurrected Jesus. Her joy is well beyond what I can imagine.

Thinking through my impossible plan to try to feel my way through the weekend really experiencing the dark leading up to Easter, and then the joy–I find that I'm never able to get to that place of grief because the joy and light keep poking in. I'm too tired to concentrate on keeping them out and feel the darkness. I know He is alive! I can't forget the Good News because it is the strength and joy of my life. I don't feel separated from my Lord during Good Friday. I am, at times, overwhelmed with what He has done to atone for sin, once for all. But death could not keep Him in the grave. His sacrifice is perfect and He conquered death for Love and His Glory. At the same time He is here with me on my superficial, tired days, leading me and carrying me and taking me where I need to be step-by-step and giving me the gifts of feeling His presence and feeling deep affection for Him when it is best for me.

Let us remember His suffering.  Let us believe in Him and receive His salvation. Let us be transformed into His bride. And if in our weakness, poor affections and pale imagination we can't grieve properly on this Good Friday for our Lord's dark day or for our sins, let us rejoice that we live on this side of Easter and that what He has accomplished is not dependent on what we do at all.

Yes, let us rejoice this Easter and every day, for the Lord is Risen, Indeed!

                                                                               ~Sara~

ps.  I wrote this on Good Friday 2010, but it reflects so much of my feelings this year as well, I decided to repost.  We are weak . . . Rejoice!