This weekend my mind traveled back 2,000 years ago and I am standing in front of the cross.

I’m trying to comprehend the magnitude of that day and I cannot wrap my brain around it. I long to be brave and stare at my Lord’s suffering in the face, needing to feel, smell and touch the gift He gave to me.

I am a coward though, because I cannot keep watching. It’s too much to bear even in just my mind. I’m disgusted at myself for covering my eyes and wanting to run away. As I’m standing there I hear wailing. I see Mary Christ’s mother and John the beloved disciple.

I don’t just hear their grief, I feel it in my bones.

As I look at John it breaks something so tender and fragile inside of me. I recognize the grief of not only losing your best friend, but your Father. It’s Mary’s cries which don’t even sound human, that unravel me. She is on the ground weeping not just over the loss of a son, but the loss of her precious Savior.

I crane my neck looking all around for the other disciples. They’re nowhere in sight.

For three years they walked with Him, worshiped with Him, learned from Him. They have fled the scene, deserting their Lord and Teacher.

As my anger begins to rise and bubble up, tears take its place and overflow, as I realize this truth: I can relate with every believer in God’s word that went before me.

I am each one.

I am Peter, having a passion and zeal for Christ, but have failed Him at times with my immaturity and impulsiveness.

I am Zacchaeus, one day climbing to the top of the tallest tree to get a glimpse of Him, yet the next day, I’m Jonah running from Him and sitting in a belly of a whale because of my rebellious, prideful heart.

I am Thomas, STILL consumed with doubts. I still question Him, still wonder if He’s really there, and wish I could investigate the holes in His hands, maybe then I would fully believe?

I am Mary of Bethany crying from my loved ones deaths and silently screaming to God at their funerals, “Where were you!?”

I have been Mary sitting with my guests entering into their lives with my full attention and heart. And I have been Martha in the kitchen, consumed with perfectionism, afraid of real intimacy.

I see Abraham, and instead of seeing his Issac, I see all of my Issac’s throughout the years. All the things I desired more than God, craved more than God, loved more than God. From relationships to unhealthy desires and dreams.

I close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath and I am John His Beloved. I am safely reclining with my head upon His chest, hearing His heartbeat and feeling His all consuming love for me.

I am Ruth, Esther, and Rahab. Brave, bold and full of courage when I believe Christ is with me.

I am David, an adulterer and a woman/man after God’s own heart.

I am Eve. Listening to the crafty serpent and taking a bite of the luscious fruit because I fear Christ may be holding out on me.

I am Paul, a Chief of Sinners, a devout Pharisee so blinded by my own self-righteousness and judgement, God lovingly has knocked me off my high horse enabling me to see.

The Lord takes me to the Garden of Gethsemane.

Christ is full of sorrow to the point of death, in such agony He is sweating drops of blood. He has asked the disciples three times to stay up and pray. In angst, I run to his disciples to wake them and as I roll them over, I see me lying there.

The glaring reality is, I also, have fallen asleep in my faith and given way to temptation because I did not heed His warnings.

I am now back at the cross.

I see all my sin and victories before me. I hear my Savior’s voice and hear Him say:

“It is finished.”

I no longer have to run, I no longer have to hide, I no longer have to fear anything, including death.

A couple of days pass and the Lord leads me to the empty tomb. Mary Magdalene is there.

It is still dark and the stone has been rolled away. I watch as she rushes to tell Simon Peter and John, before she can finish speaking, they begin to sprint to the tomb. I run quickly behind them.

They are sprinting so fast, they can’t catch their breath. They are desperate to see. Did He do what He said He would do? Was everything He said true after all? John outruns Peter getting there first.

When we arrive, I sense a familiar feeling. I too have visited tombs and seen people, dreams and hearts die, including my own. I have tasted the hopelessness of death.

I sense John’s hesitancy to go in. He’s scared to trust. Scared to believe. Scared to hope.

John peers in and sees the strips of linen lying there but draws back. Peter reaches the tomb and rushes right in. Peter looks down and sees the linen and the burial cloth that had been placed around Jesus’ head.

Finally, John musters his courage and timidly walks in.

Scripture says after going in and seeing the tomb empty, he saw and believed. Their Savior did what He told them He was going to do, He had resurrected. He had risen, defeating death.

I am now standing in my kitchen.

I’m getting ready to bake cookies and tracing the outline of the cookie cutter shaped in the image of the cross. I am John standing at the door of my heart, hesitant to go in.

It is Saturday the day before Easter and the world is in turmoil and I have been running scared. The news plays on and the stories escalate. The horrors rise in this crazy world and I stand at the door peering in scared to believe, scared to trust, scared to hope.

I look up asking Jesus, “Where are you? Will you come back? Will you do what you said you would do?”

And all I can hear Him say is: “It is finished.”

 

Photo Credit: The amazing, insanely talented, God blessed and knocked the world’s socks off with her, THE ONE, THE ONLY: Nikki Kansier.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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