Because Life Can Leave You Rattled

Father God,

 

The road took a hard jolt to the right, and I'm a bit rattled. Still on the road. Still trusting you, but rattled. So I am bringing my rattled to you because in you, there are no rattles. You are solid in your promises. You are solid in your faithfulness. When the crazy turns come and the tree is suddenly there out of nowhere and my brain things I have to swerve to miss it, it isn't really a swerve to you. It's a coarse correction. I need to remind myself of that right now. It's just a coarse correction. It doesn't mean I was on the wrong path or made a mistake or totally missed it. It means I was on a trajectory, and you adjusted it so now I'm on another one. That is all.

 

I am so thankful you are not as black and white as us humans are. We think if something has to change it must have been wrong, but that is childishness. Things change because they need to. What it was worked...until now, and now it needs to change so it can work differently.

 

Thank you for listening and for being the thing that never changes. I knew I could talk with you, spend time with you, and be settled again. You are amazing that way.

 

I love you, Lord.

 

Amen

Comfort--Humans May Blow It, But God Never Does

It's a lie. That whole idea that the first year is the hardest. It's shocking, and it's raw and in your face and heart shredding stuff, but hardest? I don't know about that.

Dad's been gone over 13 years, so it is hard to remember, but with Mom, the second Christmas she was gone was so hard I thought it was going to bury me. I spent most of the holiday feeling like I couldn't breathe. Last Easter, 5 1/2 years after her passing, I forced myself through the day. A lot of tears. Couldn't pull myself together.

My late husband? The kids' birthdays. I don't cry really hard the night before like I did the first year or two, but the birthdays are hard, knowing he isn't here to see our kids becoming adults. Our daughter is a beautiful 19 year old who loves music and movies like her dad, and our son is 16, and he is handsome and quirky and funny and looks a lot like his dad. And their dad is missing it, and they are missing him.

And we don't talk about it because we hit a point where we knew if one more person gave us some churchy answer, we were going to be anything but churchy.

Here is the thing about someone dying. Ready?

• They did not die because God needed another angel. He has plenty.
• We are not being selfish for missing them. I don't care what they died of.
• And, yes, prayerfully, they are in a better place, but we are still here and still dealing with the fact they are not.
• We agree God uses all things for the good of those who love Him and are called to His purpose. That doesn't make it not hurt.
• Time does not heal. God does.
• Trusting God does not instantly fix grief.
• We have hope of seeing them later, but the chair at the table is empty now.

And if you are one of those precious hearts who just read that last list and thought, "Thank God someone gets it," let me tell you something else.

Grief is vicious. It is unpredictable and real. You cannot let it bury you, but if you try to deny it, it will bury you.

Grief has no time limit because love doesn't die and it misses someone that is no longer here. The hole is real, and so is the pain.

There is no right way to deal with grief. There are days I cry most of the day because I miss someone, and there are days when I intentionally do something I did with that person because in remembering the good stuff, I am celebrating them. I am bringing pieces of them into now with me. A lot of the time it is kind of melancholy because I miss their being part of it, but I'm also incredibly grateful because at one time...they were part of it.

I let my faith walk me through my grief instead of believing my grief says my faith is failing.

I've been in church my whole life, and people throw out verses about God's faithfulness and everything having a purpose, and there is the suggestion that to grieve means you don't believe those things...or don't believe them enough.

Let me tell you what I held onto on my dark days and when I hurt so much I felt I couldn't breathe.

You who are my Comforter in sorrow, my heart is faint within me.--Jeremiah 8:18

Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me;

your rod and your staff, they comfort me.--Psalm 23:4

...for you, Lord, have helped me and comforted me.--Psalm 86:7

May your unfailing love be my comfort...--Psalm 119:76

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.--Matthew 5:4

But God, who comforts the downcast...--2 Corinthians 7:6

The only thing that I found to make any difference is God. I poured my heart out to Him. I cried to Him. I told Him how much I ached. I told Him what I missed. I told Him how empty things were, and every single time, He responded the same way...with comfort. Real comfort.

He listened. He calmed. He was a presence even when grief was horribly ugly. He comforted in ways I do not know how to articulate, but I felt them. I felt peace. I felt hope that tomorrow would be less crushing. I felt hope that one day I would see pink and not see the roses on Mom's casket. I felt peace that some day family dinner would be filled with laughter and not the reality of who had been lost. And I felt loved, not because of how well I was handling my grief but because God was handling my grief with me.

The road is still hard, but I've become aware of a divine kindness and mercy in it. That is part of the comfort. It wasn't always prominent, but I never once prayed for it that God did not give it to me.

Today I know some people who are grieving. For some it is incredibly fresh. For some, not so much. For some, it just comes out of nowhere. I want you to know I am so sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for your pain. I'm sorry for how hard the road is. I'm sorry for the calls that don't come, the birthdays that pass without hearing a mom or dad say happy birthday...or that they are proud of who you are becoming. I'm sorry for the birthdays you won't have with your child. I'm sorry that you weren't married longer. I'm so, so sorry. But I am praying for you, for God to comfort you, for the hole to be filled, for your heart to beat without hurting like this.

Father God,
I lift up those hurting today. I ask you to be the balm of Gilead, the healing balm, the soothing balm. Be the hand that they hold when their hand is  horribly empty. Be the presence when the missing is engulfing, and be the voice when the silence is just too much to endure. Help them remember the joyful things, the memories, and help them to celebrate those things, to be thankful for what was instead of being embittered by what wasn't. And when they get hit out of nowhere, give them comfort that it is normal and they are okay and help them to let the wave move through instead of stumbling through it with frustration. And, Lord, for these lives that are grieved, the ones that have left these monstrous holes, thank you. Thank you for the gift of them. They are valuable treasures, and I am so grateful that you placed them here for the time you did. Thank you for being The Comforter, and thank you for your ever present aid. We could not endure, little less heal, without you. Thank you for all you are and all you do. In Jesus' name I lay my petitions before you. Amen

Closing My Eyes

Something is wrong with my left eye. It feels like something is in it, but I can't figure out what. I haven't found anything. It is kind of swollen, probably from my aggravating it, and my vision is not like it is supposed to be. I can't really read. I can't type because of Arial font on a large setting. But watching TV is frustrating. Basically, if it requires my being able to see well, I'm out of luck.

So,  I lie with my head propped up, a pillow under my knees, and a cool washcloth on my left eye...and listen.

There is silence.

And God is in the silence.

I think of things going on right now over which I have no control. Things look crazy and questionable, and some of them look impossible, but things look like that to the human eye. They look too big, too hard, too crazy. They look like they have taken too long, settled in too deep, become too much of reality.

Sometimes the only way to see the change you know is to happen is to close your eyes...and listen.

Listen to the Lord who promises...
...if you seek Me you will find Me.
...I really never do leave you or forsake you and I have a way out if you are willing to walk it.
...not one of my words fails.
...I am not a man that I should like, or a human that I should change my mind. If I promised it, I'll bring it to pass.
...nothing is impossible for me.
...I don't always give you what you want, but I give you what brings you to me.
...I lead you in paths of righteousness for My name's sake, and if I lead you through the valley of the shadow of death, it's because there is something you need to learn there that you cannot learn elsewhere...and I'm with you in it.
...I am the good Shepherd. Heed my voice, and it will turn out for your good.
...if you confess your sins, I am faithful. I will forgive you and purify you from all unrighteousness.
...I am for you.
...sometimes the mess you are in is flat out your fault. I won't take responsibility for it, but I will be compassionate and help you deal with it and be blessed despite it. If possible, I'll walk you out of it. If not, I'll be with you and bless you live in it and deal with the consequences.
...you are better off spending time quiet with me than in the noise that distracts you from me.
...sometimes the most distracting noise is what you see, and the best thing that can happen is for me to give you something that forces you to close your eyes...so you can stop seeing all the stuff...and start hearing only Me.

Closing my eyes now....

Would I Have Done That?

Big news in the great state of Texas. Tonya Couch, mother of affluenza teen Ethan Couch, is working as a bartender in the Metroplex area. And you know why it is news? Because some finger pointing, self-righteous judges will have something to say about it. In fact, they'll have a lot to say about it.

The owner of the bar had this to say: "I hired her because I think everyone deserves a second chance."

Her lawyer had this to say, "This is where she could get a job, and she is choosing to work instead of living off the government."

What do I have to say? I really don't know that I would have hired her...and I would have been wrong.

See, there are two stories here. There is the story about Tonya Couch working a menial job in an effort to rebuild her life (admirable), and there is the man who is giving her the second chance.

First of all, if I were God, I wouldn't have hired me either. If you go on my background, there is not a lot to compel Him to let me be a blogger for Him, but He hired me anyway. Tonya Couch made mistakes. Some that were really big, and most of us look at her and wonder how she didn't know better. Because she didn't. There are things I did and thought that I look back on and wonder how in the world I didn't know better. Because I didn't. I knew what was imparted to me. I had to learn something different. Tonya Couch did what she knew. Where did she learn it? How will she learn something different...unless someone gives her the chance?

See a second chance isn't just a second chance to get it right. A second chance is a chance to learn to do it better, to learn you can do it better.

A second chance is someone willing to invest in you, someone willing to be part of your answer and not someone saying you aren't their problem.

A second chance is a chance to rewrite the ending of your story because someone is convinced that even a villain can choose to be a hero, and they are willing to endure the battering that can come with the change.

I've said untold number of times I believe people should get a second chance, but believing someone should get a second chance and giving them a second chance is not the same thing. One is loving with words. The other is loving with deeds. One is ugly dressed in makeup. The other is lovely glowing from the core.

That bar owner is lovely.

Me? Grateful that God showed Tonya Couch the bar owner's lovely instead of letting her be turned off to Him because of my ugly.

Peace at the End of an Unpeaceful Day

It seems one of my dearest friendships has ended. Kind of a mutual thing. We're not angry with each other. There isn't any hatred. We just aren't connected. We have gone very different directions, and a friendship requires an investment of time and has to be valued because they don't just happen. They are built. Ours has become a ghost town.

Right now, my heart is feeling the void, and it looks way too familiar, and God in heaven am I sick of this void.

And it is exacerbated by other things from today, which I won't go into in detail, but in short, my kids really miss their dad. That happens around birthdays.

And the void looks so vast that it feels impossible to see the other side.

There is a movie I have had in my Netflix queue for awhile now, but I found it at the library this past week, and I watched it today. It's The Hundred-Foot Journey. It's a story about how 100-feet can be a million mile void that becomes one big...oneness.

The truth is the void is only big in human eyes, not God's hands. And what may feel like the impossible, isn't. And sometimes painful things are the very things God uses to lead us to fulfilled dreams.

Personally, I know these things, and despite the emotions of today, I am not shaken in my faith or doubtful of His promises, but it really feels good to know God is whispering, "I know the void is vast, but in my power, it is only a breath."

And really, that is the peace at the end of a unpeaceful day. It isn't a movie or a warm fuzzy or a trite saying or even someone's worn out verse they like to toss at people. The peace at the end of an unpeaceful day is knowing God is bigger than the void and still cares about the most personal and seemingly small concerns.

Praying today you have peace...
Jerri

Mississippi?

I found out from my brother the government will most likely or has declared Mississippi a disaster area due to flooding as well. Does anyone have any information on this? I know about Louisiana because of Rod Dreher. Can anyone help me with info on Mississippi?

Because They are Just Things...Except Those Things Make Up Lives, and Those Lives are Valuable

In Louisiana this week there has been flooding beyond what anyone alive has ever seen. They are calling it Katrina 2. 40,000 homes destroyed. 100,000 people displaced. Lives lost. Homes and business completely lost. For some, everything they owned is gone. We often say, "It's just things." Yes, they are, and, no, they aren't.

They aren't just things. They are lives. They are memories. They are baby pictures, wedding pictures, the only pictures they had of deceased loved ones. They are family Bibles, personal Bibles, Mom and Dad's Bible. They are clothes, beds (you know, like the one you are used to sleeping in), and a favorite chair. They are the children's toys, the children's medical records, maybe all they have left of a child they lost. These things make up lives. They are memories of their lives, comfort in their lives, the place they lived their lives. And they are gone.

Try to wrap your brain around that for a moment.

I'll tell you the truth. I can't. I go on vacation for more than 6 days, and the urge to sleep in my own bed overtakes me, and I point the truck toward my driveway. Right now I am wearing my favorite sweatshirt, and my Bible and journal with all kinds of notes and revelations sit on the table beside me. I can get up, walk into my kitchen, make coffee, make bacon and eggs, and sit down to eat at the table that belonged to my late husband's grandmother.

I think too often we minimize the depth of the loss by babbling about the bright side. After all, most of them have their families, and really, that is all that matters. Really? Go spend three days in a hotel room with your family with no clothes, no computers/tablets/Gameboys, knowing you can't go home, no way of knowing when you will go home, or worse, being working or lower class not being able to afford adequate insurance to rebuild or pay off what is left of your mortgage and wondering what you are going to do now.

And do not even go down the "they should have..." road with me. I've heard the excuses of how people should have insurance, should prepare, should plan ahead. Here is the reality. Some people simply make enough money to hopefully pay the basic bills and buy food, and some weeks or months, they don't even succeed with that. Not because they aren't good stewards of their money but because they are the people who keep this nation running with the jobs most of us can't imagine ever having to do. Believe it or not, a person can be a hard worker and a good steward and still barely make ends meet and sometimes not even do that.

Speaking of hard workers, it is hard to work when the business that employed you is flooded, destroyed, or closed for who knows how long. Now how are you going to pay for the food to feed your family that is staying in the hotel room until who knows when? How are you going to pay for the hotel?

See, we dismiss the greatness of the loss by saying, "It's just things," but it isn't just things. These are places where lives are lived, and right now, there is no way to live there.

Yes, these people will overcome like others have done, but for just a moment, instead of simply saying a prayer and trusting God to do something, stop and ask yourself if you are the something God wants to do.

Are you the hands and feet to help clean out soaked and stinking household items?
Are the face of Jesus smiling as you pour out a bowl of gumbo?
Are you the one finding every industrial coffee maker in the area church kitchens so you can spend your day making coffee for the people who are working tirelessly to love on people in shelters?
Are you the rich man giving to the poor from your income?
Are you the organizational wizard connecting with folks to find out when a good time a team from your church can go and be useful in some way?
Are you the strength packing the trailers with clothing, food, diapers, and baby formula heading to folks who have no way or place to buy it there?
Are you the comfort buying up the character bedding at the store to take to kids who need something that feels special because they need to feel special?

Absolutely be a person of faith and pray for God to be the answer for these people,

but I encourage you to be a person of courage as well and ask God how He wants to be the answer through you.

If you want more information on what you can do or where to go to help in Louisiana, Rod Dreher at the American Conservative can help you connect with the right folks.

copyright 2016 Jerri L. Kelley

In the MIddle of the Night

Father,
Thank you for being up in the middle of the night. Thank you that even in darkness you are light. Thank you for being the ever present help.

Tonight I lift up the mommas and daddies who are walking and rocking sick, teething, and simply cranky babies. I ask you to give them patience as they love through the early hours. Give them supernatural rest because tomorrow they need to be momma and daddy again. Give them the songs in the night to sing to little hearts, and give them peace so it pervades the atmosphere and fills those upset tummies, sore gums, and growing bodies. Give them the gentle words, and as they soothe those babies, Father, soothe them.

And I lift up the mommas and daddies who aren't sleeping because their hearts ache with the loss of a child, who would love to rock their crying baby or check on their little one in their beds. I pray for comfort only you can give. I ask you to hold them as a Father who holds a hurting baby, and even as they scream and kick, hold them tighter. Grief can be ugly, but I know you are not afraid of ugly or loud or angry. Be a presence for them. Be their strength. Give them the ability to get through this night and another day tomorrow. Honestly, some won't want to. Some won't see a reason to. You are the one with vision. They need you to help them hold on, to see past this, or at least to keep breathing until they feel like their heart is beating again.

Lord, the middle of the night can be hard because it feels like morning is a million years away or like it may never come at all. I ask you to be with these hearts as they find their way through the darkness, especially the ones who don't want to find a way through, who simply want to succumb, who simply want this over. Help them through the night, but help them through the darkness inside because it is the most oppressing darkness of all.

Thank you for being a God who isn't afraid of the dark.

Amen

copyright 2016 Jerri L. Kelley

I'm Trusting

I won't say I tangibly felt Him hold my hand or His presence sitting beside me, but as this momma sat in the rolling chair by the reclined dentist chair, holding my sedated son's hand, I knew He heard every prayer I didn't speak aloud. Prayers for his peace.

It's hard sometimes, this knowing He is there when He isn't visibly there and the demand to be anxious for nothing echoes through your mind while anxiety rattles through your body despite all the prayers and petitions you present before Him. But the wondrous thing about faith is that it isn't always beautiful, but He is always in it. I don't always handle things beautifully, but He is always faithful.

After the IV was in and it was time to do the surgery, I went back to the lobby and sat quietly and gave silent thanks.

Last time we were here, the surgery didn't happen. We left for home after anxiety left him on the floor of the bathroom. And I went home and cried a hard cry.

Honestly, today I may still do the same, not because it went badly but simply because it was.

Some days are hard. They just are, not because I don't think God is with me or for me but because watching my son battle anxiety attacks is hard. Wondering who is going to win the battle today is hard. Sometimes fighting the battle is hard.

On the way home from the oral surgeon's, my son's head kept falling to the side, so at a red  light I took a jacket and put it behind his head. As I was turning forward again, the light turned green. Evidently I didn't stomp on the gas fast enough because the lady behind me held down her horn to express her annoyance. I gave a one-finger wave to express mine. I probably called her something, too, but since she couldn't see my lips move, we'll maybe pretend it didn't actually happen.

Granted, not one of my most gracious moments, but the fact is I can be a warrior or I can be gracious. Being both at the same time really isn't my strong point.

So today I'm not really gracious, but I am trusting.

Trusting God to help with pain control. Trusting God for all to heal well. Trusting God to be gracious when I'm not.

That can be the hardest thing to trust for, can't it? For God to be beautifully God when we are kind of ugly human?

Today I'm trusting.

copyright 2016 Jerri L. Kelley

I Spy With My Little Eye...A Door

Actually, I don't spy with my little eye because my little eye is spasming horribly, and to control the pain of the muscle strain, I have my eye covered up.

As I mentioned in a post way back in February, last year I experienced some eye issues. I noticed this one day at the gun range a year ago when I missed a 24x36 inch target positioned 15 yards away from me with over half my shots. That, by the way, is so seriously absurd it gives a whole new meaning to "broad side of a barn". I went to see my optometrist  who ran a battery of tests, sat in front of me, and said frankly, "Learn to shoot with your left hand and eye. The muscles in your right eye won't do this anymore."

New glasses weren't going to fix it. Surgery wasn't an option. This was my new normal.

So I did the reasonable thing. Nothing. For about six months I did nothing. Then some things happened that put me in an NRA pistol instructor course, which meant I had to qualify with a shooting accuracy I had never had before, not even with my right eye and right hand, but after multiple trips to the range each week for a month where I put 100s of rounds through my .380 in an effort to retrain my brain to shoot with the side of my body that felt totally awkward, I was accurate enough to qualify and passed the class and now am an NRA pistol instructor.

Certainly looked like God was restoring and giving back what the enemy stole.

We pray that, you know. Us charismatic types. We pray for the restoration of what the locusts stole and what the enemy stole and what anyone else stole. And we will dog that until it gets restored with serious interest.

But sometimes the point isn't restoration. Sometimes the point is closure.

When I graduated high school, I wanted to enter the military and become an expert long-range marksman. That was derailed due to a trip to the OR in which my knee was...made better... but not fixed. Three years ago I thought that might be something God was restoring. I met someone who had the connections to get a beautiful custom rifle built for me, and there were connections to someone who could train me, and it was only a matter of time until I was competing in long-range marksmen competitions. Except, the connections suddenly vaporized, and instead of seeing my target through my scope, I saw blank spots in my vision field. My vision is simply too erratic to compete. In fact, it is really too erratic to instruct.

So what was the point of the NRA instructor certification? The point was to demonstrate the difference between stolen goods and a closed door.

Obviously God can make my vision or my ability good enough to pass a qualification. He is capable. When He is capable and He chooses not to, that is no longer stolen goods, that is a closed door, and no amount of praying and claiming and declaring and casting down is going to open it up. At least you better hope it doesn't because it won't be blessed.

We don't handle closed doors well. We stand and war over them, rebuke them enemy, calling what isn't as though it were....refuse to see the new season...the new hope...the new possibilities.

It is a hard faith, this walking away from closed doors.

To walk away from a closed door you have to have faith that God is big enough to open it no matter what...but has chosen not to.
You have to have faith that the God who closed the door will open another one.
You have to have faith that the God who enabled you to live in the old door has also equipped you to live in the new one.

That can be scary stuff, living in a new door, living a way you've never lived, using gifts you've never used...being someone you've never been.

Sometimes it is easier to blame Satan for stealing than deal with the fear and doubt that keep you from seeing.

Faith is being confident of what we hope for, trusting the evidence of things we cannot yet see.

I spy with my (faith-full) little (imperfect) eye...a door...

"I Didn't Know...."

That I am Catholic?

That's because I'm not.

So why do I attend mass?

Because I find it rich with beautiful worship.

I was raised in a "Protestant" church. I hate that term because I have not protested any faith. I do not know Martin Luther. We did not attend religious protest rallies together in college where we burned the extra books of the Bible that King James left out. However, for sake of clarifying theological camps, I have to give names, and while I like George and Harold personally, they seem a bit too non-descript to be helpful. Therefore, I will refer to Catholics as Catholics and everyone else and NC (not-Catholics).

As I was saying, I was raised in an NC church. I was taught that Catholics were going to hell, that they worship the pope and Mary instead of God, and (God help us all) they even drank beer. Drinking beer was enough to send a soul to hell but to worship the pope and Mary and not God, well, what can one do with that except avoid it like the plague? And I did. Until last fall.

The truth is I've grown tired of the modern NC church culture. I'm tired of the ridiculously loud music that gives me a headache and makes my son sit in the lobby for most of the service. I'm tired of pastors who are so busy keeping the business going that it is impossible to actually connect with them unless you are part of the in crowd. I'm tired of the entitlement mentality that pervades the church and is fed with regular doses of "God has good plans for you" and "nothing can separate you from His love" and a lack of personal responsibility and no real mention of the sacred or holy. And I was raised that the sanctuary is God's house, not a coffee bar and donut shop, and should be treated with respect, not like a cheap restaurant. So, yeah, I'm struggling with NC churches.

So, I thought I would try something I had never tried before. A Catholic church.

One Sunday morning I slipped into a pew beside a friend of mine, who looked at me and asked, "What are you doing here?" I gave him the only answer I had. "I'm seeking."

That is me. I'm a seeker.

I'm not seeking a religion. I'm not seeking a theology. I'm not seeking a philosophy. I'm not even looking for a place where I agree with everything. A place like that won't stretch me, but that is another post. I'm seeking more than a good sermon. Several church I've attended have the benefits of good sermons.

I'm seeking God. I'm seeking intimacy with Him.

I'm seeking worship that forces me to really think about Him, who He is, who I am in  Him. Who I should be in Him.

That is why I attended mass last week. I wanted something NC churches don't have. I wanted the crucifix, Christ on the cross, the King who  came to serve. The Servant who teaches the only way to truly live is to die.

Now, I'm not saying NC churches don't teach about Jesus' sacrifice and death. They do, but it is a whole other thing to look at the cross hanging high above my head with the broken body of Christ on it. It is easy to hear about God's love and good plans and great gifts and get the idea that we are really something, that we are the important ones, that somehow because of how loved and  valued we are God owes us. It is easy to hear how hard God works to reach us and get the crazy idea we are somehow entitled to the blessings.

So I go and sit and look at the battered body of a perfectly innocent man hanging cruelly on a cross and try to imagine the lashes pulling flesh off my back...but I can't. I have no concept of that kind of pain. So then I try to imagine holding my body up for hours by simply holding onto a beam with my hands or pushing off a small piece of wood with my feet, and I can't. I've never been pushed to the kind of physical pain or exhaustion. But then I try to take it a bit further and imagine that I'm not holding onto that beam, but my bones are lying right against those nails, and my feet aren't pushing off a piece of wood under them  but a spike going through them. There is nothing in me that can fathom that kind of pain.

Then I let the reality of His dying and my idea of dying settle over me, and I let myself be uncomfortable with my shallowness. I let myself be ashamed of what I thought was hard. I let His death show me the better way to live.

And, friends, that has nothing to do with being Catholic or non-Catholic. It has everything to do with seeking Jesus. And I keep seeking.

copyright 2016 Jerri L. Kelley

If I Knew

Last Thursday I attended mass for the first time in months. Honestly, it wasn't so much about the mass. It just so happened that since mass was that night, it meant the sanctuary would be open, and I wanted in the sanctuary.

I wanted to sit and gaze upon the crucifix. I wanted to meditate on Christ on the cross.

One of the great mistakes of the Protestant churches I have attended in my life is the removal of the crucifix. Oh, several of them, the older ones, not the more modern ones, have the cross there, but I can't say any of them have a cross with the body of Christ on it, and to me, that is where the power is. The power isn't just a cross. Lots of people wear crosses or have crosses for decorations, and they are just that--decoration. No. The power isn't in the cross. The power is in the crucifixion, and that is what I wanted to focus on, literally and figuratively.

Tonight I attended mass again, and again I arrived early so I could meditate on the cross. As I sat and gazed upon the most beautiful murder of all time, I had a kind of mental conversation with Christ, and it went something like this:

As I sit here and look up at You hanging there, I am trying to take it in. Not just the reality of salvation. I get that, although I still don't understand it in some ways. Why in the world You would do that for Your enemies is beyond me? I know. It's called great love. Some  things are greater than I can fathom, or maybe what I struggle to fathom is that we do not have to be great to receive it. We simply have to realize how utterly great our desperation and need is.

And I look at the horror of You, and my chin quivers, and tears fill my eyes because how can I find  such stunning beauty in something so ugly as the way You were beaten and mocked and hung on a cross? But You are beautiful. The fact that You did that is so breathtakingly beautiful. Just as I have no words to truly describe the horror of it, I have no words to describe the beauty of it either. So I remain silent because the magnitude of Your beauty is beyond  my ability to describe, and too often I remain silent because people who don't understand will mock You...and me...and Your sacrifice is too great to let someone spit on it...except I am here staring at You, trying to connect with what hangs before me because too often...WAY too often...I spit on You.

And I wonder if I could understand the pain, if I could understand the love, if I could understand the mindset...Except I don't.

I cannot fathom the lashes. I cannot grasp the pain of the nails cutting into Your wrists so You can take on the consequences of others' sins. Every time I have wanted to break the skin on my wrists it was to escape the consequences of others' sins.

I cannot comprehend the physical agony. I cannot imagine suffering like that willingly when it wasn't Your fault. I struggle and plead for mercy from the pain when it is my fault. How did it feel to You for Your pain and suffering to be the mercy I plead for? For You to be mercy incarnate and for mercy to hurt that badly?

No. I cannot comprehend.

But if I could, would I be less petty? Would I be more willing to throw off the sins that I wrap in like someone with an entitlement complex? Would I see through the mirage of world and choose the better life, the sacrificed life?

If I could truly grasp You on the cross, would I run to the cross and die on it with You because knowing what it took for You to hang on that cross for me makes it impossible for me to not hang  on it for You?


Copyright 2016 Jerri L. Kelley