In the shadow of the cross...

I cannot imagine the insurmountable disappointment, grief, sorrow, bitterness and anger that the crowd, huddling at the base of the cross, must have felt. These are the people who had waited and believed that this was the One; the promised savior. Yet, here he hung. Nailed to a tree, blood and water mingling as they flowed down his side.

I can only imagine that his mother, standing near by, was being torn apart inside. I'd like to think that she knew that her son was different; that he was sent to save the world. But, I also imagine that-- seeing her son, whom she carried inside of her for nine months and brought into the world in a stable, whom she held in her arms and rocked to sleep, whom she raised and loved and cherished, flogged and beaten until the his bones were exposed, mocked and despised by those who had once followed him, crucified to a cross, and pierced in the side with a spear--she was crying out, "Lord, did it have to be this way?"

I know the end of the story. I know that His death wasn't the end. Yet, if I was standing there with the crowd, it would certainly seem as if the story had ended in an abrupt and cruel way. I'd like to think that something deep inside of me would have enough faith to still trust and believe everything Jesus said was true, but those things seem like they would be far away. I'm afraid I'd hang my head, and walk away; let down again.

Yet, surely, something did end that day. With the words 'it is finished', He ended the eternal divide between Yahweh and us. With His last breath, He paid the debt for our transgressions. When he died, he split the curtain of separation; the holy of holies could now be entered, through his blood, by us.
With his death, He bridged the chasm that kept us from God. And He did all of it because He loves us. Because He wants to be with us. Because He knew that the penalty for sin is death, and, without the sacrifice being fulfilled, we couldn't be with Him.

He did what it took to get close to us. Even dying a horrific death.

And it makes my heart stand in awe of who He is. In the shadow of the cross, on that day, in the blackest of black, in the darkest night, death surely seemed to reign. Yet, in that moment, life, also, burst forth; life that forever ended death.

Racing. Loving. Living.

Reaching for a pen, I inked the word Life, in loose cursive, onto my arm. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply. ‘Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Remember the reason. Focus.’ Each race, so far, I had a different focusing point. First, I ran for joy. For the joy of running and moving, for the joy of living life, just for joy in general. The next race was the polar opposite. I ran to leave all the anger, pain, and confusion behind me. But each race, I also ran to find that connecting point to God, because, when I run, I do feel the presence of God. Regaining some clarity and peace in the middle of my pre-race jitters, I finished lacing up my well-worn running shoes, plugged in my ear buds, donned my high school track sweatshirt, and bounced out the door.

Focus. Remember….How could I not remember. No, I could remember  so clearly—so vividly—everything about this day, one year prior. In fact, this entire day had been a day of remembering. Beginning with the moment I woke up, like typical for a Sunday, around 7:30am…

At this time last year, I thought to myself, I would have been getting ready to go to church with my family. I even remember what I was wearing—American Eagle Jeans, my black shirt tucked in, and a black belt to complete my outfit. As I rummaged through my little sister’s drawer for her black belt, a cry from my Momma cut through the peaceful air. My Dad had just called home from church (he had gone ahead of us with my brothers to run the projector for the service) to say that a young man from our church was shot and killed earlier that morning. Joel was living overseas, serving as a teacher, with his wife and two little boys. My world went silent.

I so vividly remember how my world went silent. Silence that I have never before heard,  it wasn’t even broken by a moment of breathing. And then the wave of emotions came crashing over me as I stood in the kitchen with my mom and two sisters, my brain frantically attempting to comprehend what this message meant.

Why, if God truly was loving, would He have let this happen? If God was truly all-powerful, loving, just, and righteous, would He let something so horrific happen so someone who loved Him? And if His plans were truly for good and not evil, then why would something so evil happen?

As these questions swirled through my head, bitter sorrow, disappointment, intense sadness, and pain came rushing in. His wife, his little boys, his sister and her family, his brother and his family, his parents, his friends, my heart agonized over the pain they must be in. My sense of empathy raged inside of me, I didn’t even want to know how much they must be hurting, because I didn’t know how I would bear it.

My feet kept moving, finding a rhythm on the pavement. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

I so clearly remember almost this exact time last year, I was walking down to this same place, only I was seeking solace, or refuge, or…escape. My house was heavy with the grief and sorrow of the mourning. My head was fatigued from all the thoughts, emotions, and feelings that were running through it, threatening to drag me under it’s current.  Instead of finding any of those things, I heard the sound of cheering and laughter, and remembered that it was the weekend of this race. Anger flaring up again.
‘God, these people go on like nothing happened. Their world is entirely the same. And yet, something did happen! Something horrible, tragic, and awful. And they act like it’s just another day?!’ My anger soon gave way to weariness, and I veered off the road toward a little creek. Finding an old table, I sat down. Tired. Confused. Numb, but in so much pain. My world, in which things were generally good, suddenly collided with terrorism. My benefit of the doubt ran into the brutality of reality, creating a, seemingly, cruel and unforgiving, place.  And, slowly, doubt crept in.

Focus. Remember…

Sitting on that old bench, I pulled out my pen and poured out my heart onto paper. Questions ranted through the pages,

‘Is this really best? How can this be fair? Wasn’t there another way?’ 

Yet, quietly, a still, small voice whispered through the chaos and confusion, the dark void, and spoke. With gentle, but passionate words, He spoke, reminding me of who He is, of His plans. As my pen kept writing, somehow bitterness and sorrow began to intertwine with hope and joy. Somehow in the middle of my grief, the hope of a hope entered.

…Breathe.

 Reflecting on the life, and death, of Joel, I saw a life lived in love. Deep love. He loved his family, his God, and the people he served. (and, after all this happened, it became known to the world that this people loved him too, as they took to the streets to protest and bravely tell the world that they, too, were deeply upset and hurt by this.) I knew that Joel had already counted the cost; he knew the risk in following his call. And yet, he still followed…because he loved. And that love was the source of his passion. I remember the quiet presence that Joel possessed whenever he shared in our youth group or church, yet there was a strength, confidence, and honor in that, that commanded the attention when he shared. And in the following weeks/months, I would begin to understand even more deeply just how much he really loved. His life exuded love for those around him. In that love, he chose to live. And in that love, he died. I think that Joel’s life wasn’t taken; it was given.

Moving, running, breathing, connecting…

Only a couple hours before I had hit the pavement, I had left my church and driven to another local church. I was there to support a friend who, in front of hundreds of people, was rededicating her life and trust to Jesus through baptism. Tears welled in my eyes, and my heart swelled with pride as I watched her and fourteen other people make their public declaration. It, too, reminded me of that afternoon a year ago…I had been pushed to a place of desperation, I knew I had a choice to make. Sure, I had given my life to Christ. I had been baptized. I wanted to live life well, and do good things. But now the stake had been moved; life had intensified. The risk was higher and harder. The requirements to go forward included a decision. Either I trusted in a God of redemption, restoration, strength, goodness, courage, and life, even in the face of death. Or I could deny that He was all those things, and let the doubt wash over me. In the doubt, I found and ease; honestly, it made more sense to my grieving and mourning heart.

Yet, I didn’t want to believe that was true. Looking at Joel’s life, I knew I wanted to live like that. If my life was required of me to give, then it would be given. I rededicated, re-consecrated, my life, to a God that I saw in his life; a God that made life worth living, and love worth the risk.

And now, more clearly than ever, I knew life wasn’t filled with mostly good things, it couldn’t be. Not in a world so filled with horrific and evil things. But what it could be full of is love. Love that covers over the pain, sorrow, bitterness, anger, hurt, evil, tragedy, and loss. Love that made it worth trusting, believe, hoping. And love that made all the hurt worth it. Love that loved loving people. Life, in the mystery of the good and bad intertwining, was worth living when love comes in.

So as I ran, I knew I ran for life. For everything that it included, remembering how much I’ve learned since this day last year.  I ran to honor Joel’s life. I ran because in watching his wife live through this past year, I stood in awe at her grace, strength and trust. I ran for his sister, brother, parents and friends. I ran for love. I mostly just ran for life, with everything that came with it. A life well live, is a life well loved.

(and the details? Okay, I ran my personal best time. The official gun time was 18:41. I placed 11^th overall, and first for the women. I won the series (after winning both the February and March race) for the women. And, mostly, I just got to run with other incredibly people.)

After almost a year of not blogging, I'm sitting here ready to write again. And yet, I'm not even sure where to begin.

My last post was a post of intense brokenness. Honestly, a lot of last year was about breaking apart. And growing. And learning. And loving. And breaking more, deeper. Because of the intensity of the whole year, I'm not sure how I could even begin to summarize it into a post.

So I'm not even gonna try.

What I am gonna do is start writing again. (Or at least that's gonna be the thought behind all this :P ) Because where I've been doesn't define me, but it has shaped me and helped to make me into who I am. So that will flow into my writing.

And so, as spring begins again--as the trees start to bud, and the bulbs start to poke through, and some of the brave, little flowers bloom. And as the air becomes (eventually) warmer, and the sun shines a little more intensely and longer--my fingers are ready to write about my ramblings, thoughts, amusements, and life...again. So, hello again, blogging buddies :)