And yet again, another Good Friday in which it is raining and overbearingly gray. It seems this is the tradition each year, for God to shed His tears on a day that is so solemn, so heavy on the shoulders, as I attempt to fathom what He did for us over 2,000 years ago.
The day was heavy for reasons other than the fact that it was the day He died. Salt in my own wound, His made by nails.
I wanted to see that He saw me. Still saw me.
I wanted to know that He still knew my inmost being and my thoughts from afar even though it’s the busy season of Easter.
I wanted to feel His arms wrapping around, His palms holding me.
The hidden treasures He stores, the intimacy in which He knows us, often astounds me and forces me to wonder how anyone could deny His existence for these hidden treasures are indeed and not mere coincidences.
I listen again to the story, the story that is so painful to hear and yet so amazing at the same time and I cringe at the part when Jesus says He is thirsty.
It gets me every time. A dying man asking for help, for a simple drink of water as he hung from a cross in a pain that I can’t even imagine.
And they sent up a sponge soaked in vinegar.
Yet He still asked the Father to forgive them. Even them – the ones who could show not an ounce of compassion and humanity for a dying man.
I leave the service and I’m hungry. It’s past lunchtime and I must grab something quick before going to the grocery store.
As the rain pounds on the windshield and my toes grow icy in the sandals that aren’t ready to appear quite yet, I see the cross with a beautiful incandescent light streaming through to pierce the gray.
He’ll meet us anywhere. Even in the drive-thru of Taco Bell.
Hillsong is playing and I marvel at the shining light and I thank Him for the hidden treasure He knew I wanted to see on this day of sadness mixed with redemption and grace.
Comforted, I drive to the grocery store. I peruse my list before I begin to gather and I laugh.
First item for purchase?