It’s Friday and we want Sunday. . .
A two-sided braided path leads to Easter. There’s the prettier one – the easier one we take while rushing to the resurrection where we miss reflecting on the one stained with blood tracks and flesh-ripping thorns.
The passing of my mom during holy week has always added to the sorrow. And the joy. The beautiful blend to help us understand that each one of us are in critical condition needing a Savior to take us to Sunday.
The final hours for Jesus had Him face devouring crowds, the cup that wouldn’t pass for His Father’s will to carry the world uphill to a cross . . in that ancient week that still haunts our today.
Divinity is larger than nails, yes, but we need to be at the foot of the cross to see the human side – the healthy thirty-three year old carpenter whipped to holy bone, suffering with failing organs and a ruptured heart, while looking through swollen eyes to see a helpless thief hanging next to Him needing mercy . . . and a broken mom beneath His pierced feet that helped take a first step. The human side.
I know the simpler side of Easter is pastel – not darkness.
But, Friday. The sacred piece on the path is where we must camp for more than a moment to experience the devastating beauty that leads to Sunday.