A Resurrection Story.
by Lauren Goldbloom
I can hear her singing in the shower. She has been raised back to life.
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It is Good Friday, and we have felt the goodness of it. Around the table we have broken bread and remembered His body, full flesh, broken for us. In the comfort of our living room we have remembered the Via Dolorosa, and the anguish of that long journey He took for us. Confessions have been made; though we are here, 2000 years from it, our sin is there, nailed to the cross. We have entered this story, and yet we can hardly fathom what He suffered… the sting of betrayal, the burden of grief, the shear pain of the torture, the weight of the cross… This cup – how could He bear it?
There You are… on the cross… And love still flows out of You. Grace. Words of peace to Your mother and beloved friend. Then abundant mercy to the thief on Your left. And to all of Your children…Forgiveness. Yes, we know not what we do. My Lord, we have hung you on the cross. There you are – tortured, betrayed, crucified – and you are bleeding Love.
My shame and guilt have hung Him there. This grief – the world has seen no greater pain. This is not a place for a king… and yet…
I need the cross. We need it. Us, gathered around the living room, telling stories of this tragedy, could we be here without it? We remember the dark of this Friday, and though we grieve it we already know how much we need it, how this cross was the only way to the empty tomb, to our new life, to our own resurrection.
We take a moment to share how the cross has forever changed us. On cardboard we write down the dark that we have come from, hurts, losses, fears, brokenness… And on the other side, how we have been put back together, resurrected, made new by the power of our God become Man who bore the weight of our brokenness.
It is then that I can see it, plain as day, how she is coming back to life. This new daughter of mine is being resurrected. In her brave honesty she shares the hurt she has come from, and the new life she is finding. Her Father is telling her who she is, that she is beautiful, that she is whole, that she is of infinite worth. And in His mercy and grace to us He has used our voices, this home, to tell her. And I ask again – could we be here, together on our sofas, without the cross? That darkest hour is the only way we could find Light.
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I am just about to walk the stairs upward to my bed, when I hear that sweet melody. She is here. She is home. She is singing. And that is the power of the cross. And the empty tomb.