Category: Blog

Sometimes I feel no one’s ever been in this place before

This is hard, and I’m not sure I can do this anymore.

I know someday I’ll look back and all this won’t seem real,

But Lord, right now I need you to know just how I feel.

(Jeff and Sheri Easter, “Hear My Heart”)

I could not pray; I could not think; even breathing was a challenge. Just a few hours ago, I had arrived home from a visit to my father to find that my dear husband, Ron, had fallen asleep in his easy chair. And passed into Glory.

Amid the chaos of paramedics arriving, adult children crying, my autistic son sitting solemnly in a wooden chair next to Ron’s empty bed, and making phone calls to family, I  functioned on automatic. I said and did the right things for the paramedics, Ron’s mother, my father, my children, and the medical examiner.  

But as I lay alone in bed after Ron’s poor, sick earthly body was taken away, I could not form the words to talk to God. I was too broken to think in terms of coherent sentences, my sorrow too deep to utter.  

I needed the Holy Spirit to hear my heart. 

When there are no words to say

And no prayer that I can pray, hear my heart.

When I don’t have strength to try

And I’ve cried all I can cry, hear my heart.

 Long before the Holy Spirit indwelled the believers on the day of Pentecost, he was at work. As one of three identities of the Trinity, many consider the Holy Spirit to be unfathomable, but in truth he is very present and has been since the beginning. Genesis 1:12 says that at the moment of Creation,  “The Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.” You can’t go back any further than that!

There is much evidence in the Old Testament of the workings of the Holy Spirit. Joshua is described as “a man in the Spirit” (Numbers 27:18) and Othniel, Caleb’s younger brother, had “the Spirit of the Lord upon him” (Judges 3:9-11). 1 Samuel 16:12-13 says that when the prophet anointed him, “The Spirit of the Lord rushed upon David from that day forward.”

Cause you know every fear and every doubt I cannot speak.

You know all the ways I need you and all the ways I’m weak, so I’ll be quiet

So you can hear my heart.

I was exhausted the night my husband died. The long years of being his caregiver had been physically draining. His sudden death depleted my emotions. After my adult children and best friend Chris left and my autistic son went to bed, I was left alone with my sorrow.

But I was not really alone. Over the next few weeks, I was comforted by the Holy Spirit in several ways.

1.   He prays for us in a power we do not have. “The Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness” (Roman 8:26). My own strength was spent; I had none left. But the Holy Spirit is an inexhaustible fount of strength and energy.
2.   He prays for us with wisdom we lack. “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.” (Romans 8:26). I lost all words at that difficult time. The Holy Spirit heard my groanings and understood.
3. He prays for us in mercy we cannot understand. “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1). My husband died as a believer. I knew he was in Heaven. The Spirit helped me to focus on this and not blame God for Ron’s death.
4. He prays for us with a connection we do not possess. “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” (Romans 8:35) As part of the Trinity, the Holy Spirit was able to bring me closer to God, even as I mourned my beloved.
5. He prays for us with God’s will in mind. “And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God.” (Romans 8:27).  My life had been intertwined with Ron’s for so many years, it was difficult to imagine moving on without him. But God knew that there was another path for me, and the Holy Spirit showed me a writing ministry I had never planned on having.

Each of us suffers losses. Each of us comes to a point in our lives when we feel abandoned, uncertain, and in need of comfort. What better comfort can we have than that from the Holy Spirit, who knows us in ways no human can, who sees into our hearts? 

Now, three years later, there are still mornings when I wake up, startled to find Ron’s side of the bed empty. I do not need to find words at that moment. I just need to be quiet, and let the Spirit hear my heart. 

 

Hear my heart

 

READY?

My room looks forlorn this time of year. My students and I have taken down posters, vocabulary cards, anchor charts, sentence strips, and the world map that have dominated my walls since September. As they dissemble the room, they chatter in their native tongues: Spanish, French, Chinese, Portuguese, Mondo. Somehow, they understand each other. We add to the bulletin board the names and pictures of the eight English as a Second Language seniors who will graduate this week, moving from my little corner room of an urban high school and–gulp–into the world.

Each year, I pray that I have given these foreign-born or first-generation students what they will need to succeed. After four years of high school, are they ready?

Acts 2:1-20 tells the story or another group of students sent out into the world. For three years, they had studied under Rabbi Yeshua, the Son of God. They soaked in His parables and lessons, wondered at His miracles, and tried to dream the dream of the Kingdom of God. 

They were probably as nervous about the whole “go out into all the world” commandment from Matthew 28:19 as my senior students.

WAITING FOR THE HARVEST

It is noteworthy that in the Jewish tradition, Pentecost is the celebration of the early wheat harvest, taking place from May to June, after the Passover (Ephesians 34:22). Until the priest had blessed the offerings and given them to God, the faithful could not enjoy the fruits of their labor. They needed to wait.

And wait the disciples did, gathering in the upper room for the arrival of the Holy Spirit, not really understanding his form or function, just believing in the instructions Jesus had given them that they should “not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the gift my Father has promised” (Acts 1:4). What would the gift be? Would they recognize the Comforter? How would he help them in disciplining the world?

A MYSTERY

The coming of the Holy Spirit was not quiet: it was noisy and sudden and caught the attention of all who were within hearing. The filling by the Holy Spirit changed forever the twelve men who had traveled with Jesus on His earthly journey. It led them to leave the shores of Galilee, to minister to all who would listen. Unfathomable, unexplainable by human standards, the Spirit has always been and always will be.  It is a great mystery.

What happens in my ESL room is, on a smaller scale, also a mystery. How do these students from different countries, speaking different languages, form a community in Room 108, a place where they can help and encourage each other, where they can dream their dreams and seek their visions, ready to “go out into the world” ? I say good-bye to them with both tears and joy. I know that I will see, someday, the promise fulfilled in each of them even as I bid them farewell.  

We, however,  never have to bid farewell to the Holy Spirit. He is a gift from the Father. He teaches us and reminds us of God’s word, he convicts of us our sins, he is a source of wisdom, he gives us gifts to forward the Kingdom of God. He helps us dream our dreams, seek our visions, and even write our blogs.

INTO THE WORLD 

I sit at my desk, feeling a little sad and dejected at the emptiness of my classroom, the coming good-bye to my seniors. Natalia, a student from the Dominican Republic, comes up and gives me a hug. “We will leave,” she says, “and there will be new students who need you. But we are ready. You have given us what we needed.” 

I pray each of them out into the world, into their dreams. 

And are you ready? The Holy Spirit has given us all we need to go out into all the world. Isn’t it time you followed your own dreams?

 

We stand in the darkness of a thousand midnights
Troubled, perplexed, persecuted, cast down

For a time, the murderers and the tyrants and the shooters may overwhelm us
Seeming invincible as they steal the light.
And we stand in the darkness of a thousand midnights. 

But the night is far from spent.
The way of truth and life has always won.

When evil men plot, good men must plan.
When evil men burn, good men must build.
When evil men shout the words of evil, good men must pray the words of love.

Because we do not stand alone.
We stand as brothers
Death may work in us, but life works in Christ. 

We stand with the same faith that raised the Lord from His grave
The same grace that covers our own sins
And renews us day by day. 

Troubled, perplexed, persecuted, cast down
But not distressed, despaired, forsaken or destroyed.

There have always been tyrants, and murderers
And darkness as a thousand midnights.

They seem, for a moment, invincible.
Right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.

Always. 

God will win.
Always.

 

I Corinthians 4:8-18
Mahatma Ghandi
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Romans 13: 12

The voice of the Lord is over the water; the God of glory thunders; the Lord is over many waters. (Psalm 29:3)

Despite my umbrella and raincoat, I am soaked to the knees before I reach the subway station, my cute shoes with the striped bows ruined. The streets run with rivers of water, reminding me of childhood play when my brother and I would sail paper boats down the swollen culverts at our beach house.

The water feels tepid as I splash through it. My feet are already soaked, I reason, so rather than sidestep the rushing streams at the street corner, I jump into puddle after puddle, laughing as I make my way home.

At the end of a long week, the gift of playful water has renewed me.

Water itself has no magical properties. It is colorless, odorless, and tasteless. But it is also a vital part of our earthly existence; it surrounds us in the womb, maintains our body temperature, and helps every cell in our bodies to function.

God has also ordained water to renew us in the Sacrament of Baptism. The Introduction to the Sacrament of Holy Baptism says, “We are initiated into Christ’s holy church, incorporated into God’s mighty acts of salvation, and given new birth through water and the Holy Spirit.” In the rite of baptism, the members of the church vow to surround the baptized with love, prayer, and forgiveness, much as water surrounds and provides for us from the time of our conception. 

Jesus provided us with the example of baptism when John immersed Him in the waters of the Jordan (Matthew 3:13-17). He instructed His disciples to “make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 28:18-20).

The waters of baptism have no special powers; it is plain and simple water, but it is a symbol of entrance into the Christian family. While many churches do not practice infant baptism, the Church of the Atonement of Claymont welcomes anyone of any age to the family of believers through baptism. Peter provides the background for the baptism of children in Acts 2:35-41 during the Day of Pentecost when he told the people, “Repent and be baptized, everyone of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off, for all whom the Lord our God will call.”

On Sunday, May 22, 2022, God called Lucas Alexander Knutson to join the family of Christ here at Atonement. Only seven months old, he does not yet understand all that it means to be a member of God’s family. His mother Paula, his grandmother Cathy, his godmother Xyla, and his babysitter Theresa will do their part in teaching him what family is. But we who stood up in church last Sunday also bear responsibility for serving as examples of God’s care to Lucas and surrounding him with love.

No matter how many puddles he splashes in and how much mud he tracks across  the floors. 

And as he grows, may we remember our own childhoods, sailing boats down the rivers made by the rain, splashing happily in puddles with no thought to our shoes, and drinking in with wonder all God has provided.

WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, LUCAS!

Now there was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews. This man came to Jesus by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do unless God is with him.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.’” – John 3:1-3

 

A SECRET VISIT

No one could find out, he thought as he slunk through the deserted streets of Jerusalem. As a member of the Sanhedrin, he knew his fellow Pharisees would ridicule him for thinking to associate with the lowly fishermen and the leader they followed.

But Nicodemus longed for the truth, a thirst for it deeper than any he had ever known. His sleep had been disturbed for too long by questions to which he had no answers. Was the Galilean really able to work miracles?  Or were they just tricks to trap the simple peasants who trod after him?

He could not risk being seen. His reputation was at stake. Knowing he could be exposed as a fool at any moment, he still could not resist the lure to learn the truth:

Was Jesus, the carpenter, really the Son of God?

A RAINY EVENING

I was fourteen that July, working my first real job at a Five and Ten store in a seaside town, spending my days off sunning on the beach. But there was a restlessness about me. Even the books that provided most of my summer entertainment gave me no answers to the questions that roiled in my mind.

I lay on my cot in the upstairs loft of our summer cottage, listening to the rain beat a tattoo on the roof. Stealthily so I did not awaken my brother on the other side of the loft, I clicked on my bedside lamp and reached into the pocket of the shorts I’d flung onto the floor. My fingers felt the folded envelope my grandmother had brought in from the mailbox this afternoon. I’d read the note from Pam already, but I pulled it out again.

“God has no grandchildren,” she had written in her beautiful and flowing cursive. “I know your church and your religion are important to you, Linda. But only Jesus, not rules, will give you eternal life.”

I considered her words again. For four years, Pam had been my middle school music teacher, but once I graduated middle school, she told me to call her by her first name and invited me to an after-school Bible study. She showed me John 3:16 and invited me on more than one occasion to give my life to Jesus. 

My heart longed to, but the rules of my mother’s religion were ingrained in me. How was it possible that such a gift–eternal life in Heaven–came with no need for penance or dogma?

A HOPEFUL PRAYER

The only prayers I knew were the ones in the missile my mother had given me on my First Communion. But Pam had  told me that I did not need scripted prayers; I could just talk to God. So I did, slipping out of bed and kneeling onto the bare wooden floor. I clutched Pam’s letter in my hand.

I didn’t want to be God’s grandchild. My own grandparents were wonderful and special to me, but I only saw them in the summer months and odd weekends.

 I didn’t want my relationship with God to be part-time. 

I didn’t know what the sinner’s prayer was. I didn’t have any experience at all with Roman’s Road. I barely knew John 3:16.

But as I knelt on that wooden floor in our summer college, listening to the rain beat on the roof, my heart cried out to God.

He heard me. I was born again. 

A CHANGED LIFE

I am certain that Nicodemus faced challenges from his fellow Pharisees after his night with Jesus, yet there was a lasting effect. In John 7:50, he reminded the Sanhedrin that no person should be judged without a trial. His colleagues mocked him, asking if he, too, was from Galilee. After Jesus’ crucifixion, Nicodemus supplied the needed spices for the proper burial of the body and assisted Joseph of Arimathea in transporting Jesus to the tomb (John 19:39-42). 

And me? My mother wasn’t too happy when I declared my intention to leave the church she loved, so I continued to attend with her each Sunday until I left for college. I also know that she realized my faith was solid and strong. During the many years my husband suffered with multiple illnesses, she would often say to me, “Only someone with your faith could see this through.”

It wasn’t me, I’d tell her. It was Jesus. 

The Heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands. (Psalm 19:1)

A VAST UNIVERSE

Allen adjusts the lens of his new telescope. “Heaven must be up there somewhere,” he tells me as I lay back on our front lawn and look up at the night sky. “If we can see it, we’ll know where Dad is!” Since his father’s death seven weeks ago, much of my adult autistic son’s energy has been spent in attempting to locate Ron’s whereabouts.

My heart aches for my son, who cannot yet accept the finality of his dad’s passing. Like many on the autism spectrum, the world is a vastly confusing place to Allen, full of noises and sights and things that overload and confuse his neuro-atypical brain. He is most comfortable in a concrete world with things he can control. If he can see it, he reasons,  he can exercise control over it. The vastness of the universe overwhelms him.

THE COMFORT OF STARS

King David, too, found himself overwhelmed by God’s creation. He describes the glory of God displayed in the blue sky of morning and the dark expanse of night, the careful placement of the planets and the stars and the clouds as a declaration of “the Glory of God ” (Psalm 19:1). The creation speaks to our senses; in the Hebrew text, the image is of a gushing spring pouring forth sweet water.

The psalmist poetically describes the heavens as a tabernacle for the sun which God has placed to provide both light and heat for his created beings. The stars, too, provide comfort in the night. Without the stars, David Guznik states in his commentary on Psalm 19, the blackness of the night would close in around us and we would see the blank sky empty, evidence of our aloneness in the great expanse of space.

I recall the words of C.S. Lewis as I survey the bright diamonds God has spread across the velvet night: “The Psalm reflects, more than any other, the beauty and splendor of the Hebrew poetry found in the Psalter.” It is beauty; it is perfection; it is love.

LOOKING FOR DAD

But to my son, still adjusting the lens and repositioning his telescope, it is staggering. In the billions of miles of all creation, where is his father? How can he find him?

“Do you think Heaven is in just one spot?” Allen asks me. “I read somewhere that scientists think there is this great big empty space near the North Star.”

I rise up from the lawn and join him at his telescope, peering into the lens in the direction he’s indicated. “I don’t know,” I tell him. “God has made an infinite universe because He’s an infinite God. But I know God has made a place for Dad.”

Allen’s shoulders slump. I give him a quick hug. “I just wish I could see where Dad is. So I can know for sure that he’s okay. That he’s happy.”

“We can know it,” I tell him. I reach my arms out towards the heavens. “The God who made all of this so carefully and perfectly would also take great care with Dad. As much as we love Dad, God loves him even more.”

“I guess,” Allen says. He continues to scan the skies, looking for concrete evidence of Heaven’s existence and his father’s residency. He sighs. “Well, at least there’s a lot of space if some people in Heaven want to play baseball. I think Dad would like it if he could play baseball again. He missed playing when he got sick.” He grins. “Like that movie he liked, Field Of Dreams.”

“I think he’d like that, too,” I say. “Let’s just stand here for a moment and think about Dad rounding the bases up in Heaven.”

We stand under the night sky, my arm around Allen. My son’s acceptance of his father’s death and his promotion to Heaven grows slowly. But God is not only capable of infinite creation, but of infinite patience.

He’ll wait until Allen is ready.

 

This event was part of the grief process of an autistic adult. To read more about the faith journey Dr. Linda Cobourn took with her son, Allen, after the death of her husband, visit her blog: Quirky: Because we’re all a little different at lindaca1.substack.com.

 

One by one, Jesse’s sons, stood before the prophet
Their father knew a king would soon be found.
Each one passed, except the last,
No one thought to call him,
For surely he would never wear a crown.
(“Shepherd Boy” by Ray Boltz)

 

FEARSOME GOLIATH

The kids in our Wednesday night Bible Club sat on the floor, facing a sheet strung between folding chairs, our make-shift puppet stage. Pam led the children in “Jesus Loves Me,” while Chris signed the words in American Sign Language. Two of my children, Dennis and Bonnie, operated sock puppets, their bodies hidden by the sheet.

In the hallway outside the classroom, I strapped a plastic Roman’s soldier helmet onto my husband’s head and fixed a red cape around his shoulders. “Try and look fierce!” I told him. “Goliath is fearsome!” We both laughed because even at 6 foot 4 inches, Ron was anything but fierce. The kids loved him, calling him the Gentle Giant. 

We were telling the story of David and Goliath but, as usual, we needed to make do with what we had. Our program had no official budget, and we were used to scrounging around to find costumes and props.

We used the ordinary things we had.

On Sunday, Pastor Amy spoke about the “David and Goliath” presentation at Knollwood and the impression it made on the children. It got me thinking about how we, as Christians, can use the very ordinary things in our lives to spread the gospel of Jesus.

ORDINARY THINGS

One by one,
Problems come,
And dreams get shattered.
Sometimes it’s hard to understand.
Cause things like chance and circumstance
They don’t really matter
Our Father has tomorrow in his hands. 

 

David, the shepherd boy who became King, is a prime example of “using the ordinary.” No one expected much of the youngest of Jesse’s sons. Left to care for the sheep while his older and bigger brothers went off to find the Giant Goliath, David used his slingshot to protect the herds, killing lions and bears who attacked. It soon became clear to David, who had merely been bringing lunch to his brothers on the battlefield, that God needed him, an ordinary shepherd boy, to kill the Philistine. Despite the disparaging words of his older brothers (I Samuel 17:28), David remained steadfast.

Here’s where it gets really interesting. King Saul tried to outfit David as a proper soldier, putting a helmet on his head and garbing him in armor (I Samuel 17: 38) But these were not the ordinary things–the sling and the stones–that David was accustomed to. He shrugged off the armature and approached the giant armed with the things he knew about: his slingshot and five little stones. 

USE WHAT YOU HAVE

Well it wasn’t the oldest
And it wasn’t the strongest
Chosen on that day.
Yet the giant fell
And the nations trembled
When they stood in his way.

 

For the Bible lesson long ago, we used what we had: props taken from the Christmas pageant, a sheet from my linen closet, and mateless socks with sewn-on button eyes. Ron roared into the classroom, brandishing his plastic sword, and was soon felled by the puppet David. The kids on the floor laughed and clapped and talked for weeks about the power of God to use ordinary people and ordinary things to conquer giants.

As I sat in church this past Sunday, I wondered at the ordinary things God had given me to use in spreading his word: I wasn’t rich or famous. I wasn’t a king and I didn’t have a million  followers on Instagram. But I had words and stories to share, my own “ordinary things.”

How about you? What are the ordinary things God has given to you that can help you spread His word? Do you have an extra coat to give to someone in need? A frozen lasagne that could feed a hungry family? A pen to write a note of encouragement? A pair of hands to lift in prayer?

Ordinary things. But powerful when used for God. 

When others see a shepherd boy
God may see a king
Even though your life seems filled
With ordinary things.
In just a moment, He can touch you
And everything will change.
Where others see a shepherd boy,
God may see a King!

Let them praise his name with dancing and make music to him with timbrel and harp (Psalm 149:3, NIV)

A Planned Trip

I watched as the Statue of Liberty glided past the window of our state room on the Jewel of the Seas, snapping a couple of photos with my I-phone to send to our kids before we lost internet service. After months of planning and teaching additional classes to pay for the passage, my husband and I were finally taking the cruise to Bermuda we’d hoped to take for our 25th wedding anniversary, a trip that was indefinitely postponed by Ron’s car accident that year. When the packet from Royal Caribbean had arrived the previous  week with our reservations, list of activities, luggage tags, and a colorful map of the island, I was ecstatic, feeling as if I had won Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket!

“What shall we do first?” I asked Ron as I turned away from the window. I pulled the colorful brochure out of my handbag, ready to explore all the luxuries this ship had to offer. But my husband, exhausted from the shuttle trip up from Philadelphia and the long wait to embark, had fallen asleep on the bed. Quietly, I walked across the small room, folded up his walker, and slid it to the side of the bed. We were finally here, on a trip to paradise, but the injuries that continued to plague Ron would certainly limit his activities. It wouldn’t really be paradise for him.

His Paradise would come later.

The Ticket to Ride

This past Sunday, April 24, Cliff Werline spoke of the many reasons we as Christians have to be joyful, not the least of which is the reality of eternal life that awaits us when we exit this mortal world. We should, Cliff advised us, “fix our hearts on eternal life” because we have the ticket to take us there. And that ultimate Paradise offers much more to us than a bounty of pineapples and turquoise waters.

While it’s true we’re not exactly sure what life will be like in Heaven, we do know that “our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ,  who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body”  (Philippians 3:20-21). We’ll never get tired, never get hungry, never be cold. In addition, if our bodies are indeed to be made like the body of Jesus, there might be other things we can look forward to doing in Heaven that we can’t do here.

Flying? Why not? Acts 1: 3-10 describes how Jesus “was taken up before their eyes, and a cloud hid Him from sight”  when He left earth to return to Heaven. Walking through walls? Well, Jesus did when the disciples were in a locked room and “Jesus came and stood among them” (John 20:19). Run fast enough to not sink into the ocean? Both Jesus and Peter did in Matthew 14:22-29. How about teleportation? Acts 8:38-40 tells us that when Philip was ministering to the eunuch,

 “ the Spirit of the Lord suddenly took Philip away”. 

Most importantly, our “dying bodies must be transformed into bodies that will never die” (I Corinthians 15:53). And there would, I have absolutely no doubt, be dancing in our praise to God. 

Ron had always loved to dance.

The True Paradise

Despite Ron’s physical limitations, we enjoyed our one and only cruise. It was a time away from hospitals and doctors, surgeries and medical appointments. Even if I needed to push Ron in a borrowed wheelchair around the paved paths on the white-sanded beaches, we were still able to enjoy gorgeous sunsets and time together in the paradise of Bermuda.

I like to think now of Ron in the true Paradise, his body no longer failing him. The wheelchair and the walker have been left here on earth; he has no need of them in Heaven because, “we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands” (2 Corinthians 5:1). Can he fly? Can he teleport? Maybe.

What I am certain of is this: freed from his illnesses in body and mind, he is undoubtedly dancing.

Dance, then, wherever you may be,

I am the Lord of the Dance, said he,

And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be,

And I’ll lead you all in the Dance, said he.

And so can you.

“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him;” (Isaiah 53, vv.4–5)

The black night crushed down on me, a weight greater than any I’d ever borne. My soul felt empty, devoid of all light.

Widow. I was a widow. Just a few hours ago, my beloved husband, Ron, had passed from this life in to the next, leaving a crevice in my heart I feared could never be filled. 

The tears streamed down my face. I reached across the bed for Ron’s pillow, needing the comfort of his scent as I waited for the first pink threads of morning.

“Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow.” (Lamentations 1, v.12)

I can imagine the emptiness the disciples of Jesus felt on the Silent Saturday after His crucifixion was akin to mine. The man they had believed in, pinned their hopes on, planned their futures with, had died. Those few who had stayed into the last moments saw his limp and battered body lowered from the cross and laid on the ground.

“It is finished,” He had said. 

Did His followers understand the magnitude of what He uttered? The Greek term “it is finished” is translated as “telelastal,” which means “paid in full.” Jesus had marked the debt of sin paid. As they huddled together, weeping for their loss, some of them feeling the guilt of things not said or done, did they understand the promise of His last words?

“Let us break their bonds asunder, and cast away their yokes from us.” (Psalm 2, v.3)

The sorrow that crushed me that night laid as heavily on the group as the boulder that had been rolled before the tomb. They had believed in Jesus’ earthly existence and kingship. They could not yet understand that Jesus of Nazareth had come not to lift their physical burdens, but the heavier weight on their souls.

I knew that night, as they did not, that while Ron’s earthly life had come to an end, his eternal life had just begun. I felt the loss of my husband deeply; a piece of myself had been severed.  But as I hugged his pillow and waited for daylight and the arrival of our children, I also rejoiced that Ron was no longer in pain; he had been made whole.

I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.” (Job 19, vv.25–26); “For now is Christ risen from the dead, the first fruits of them that sleep.” (I Corinthians 15, v.20)

Thankfully, we know how the story of Jesus ends. On Sunday, our church rang out with hymns of praise and shouts of Hallelujah as we celebrated the miracles. Not just one of His resurrection, but of the redemption given to all of us.

As I stood among other believers, singing the Hallelujah chorus, I knew something the disciples would learn as the three women went to the tomb.

It was empty.

The cost of sin had been paid so that we, my husband included, could be People of the Resurrection.

Our own tombs are also empty.

Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing. Blessing, and honor, glory, and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever.” (Revelation 5, vv.12–14) “Amen.”

A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, while others cut branches from the trees. The crowds went ahead of Him and those that followed shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Hosanna in the highest heaven!” Matthew 21:8-9 (NIV)

 

LASTING MEMORIES

We watched from the boardwalk as the orange sun dipped slowly into the Atlantic Ocean, brush strokes of pink and purple spreading across the darkening sky as the golden flecks on the water faded to black. I squeezed my husband’s hand in mine, and laid my head against his arm. I knew that in a few moments, the ocean breeze would chill his depleted body and I’d need to begin the difficult task of manuveuring him and his wheelchair back to our hotel. Our vacation at Bethany Beach was swiftly coming to an end. Ron’s illnesses continued to ravage his body and his mind.

I knew this would be our last vacation.

For just a few more moments, I breathed in the fresh salt air, committing to memory the colors of the sunset, the warmth of Ron’s hand in mine, the gentle sound of lapping waves. The months ahead would be difficult; this moment would be a moveable feast of the senses to travel with me.

A MOVEABLE FEAST

Palm Sunday is, according to the United Methodist Church, a “moveable feast” that–unlike Christmas–occurs on a different date each year, determined by the lunar calendar. While the date may change, traditionally Palm Sunday is a celebration and, perhaps more importantly, a memory to hold when times turn dark. Even as we celebrate the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, we are aware of what will happen: the abandonment on Wednesday, the betrayal on Thursday, the trial and death on Friday. Difficult days to be endured, perhaps eased by a beautiful memory.

“Hosanna!” the crowds shouted. “Save now!” They wanted immediate release from Roman rule, expecting that Jesus would not just overturn the tables of the money-changers in the temple, but the Roman government itself. The clothes and palms spread before Him were a sign of homage to the one they hoped would become the earthly King and free them from their physical bonds.

But Jesus, you might recall, came to Jerusalem not on a horse, a symbol of war, but on a donkey, a sign of peace (Zechariah 9:9). An untried donkey (Luke 19:30). A common work animal. An animal whose sole purpose in life was for this one moment in time when he carried the Savior into the city. A moment that would become, for the faithful followers of Jesus, a time to remember.

A TRAVELER MOVES ON

In his memoir published in 1964, Ernest Hemmingway describes a moveable feast as, “the memory of a splendid place that continues to go with the moving traveler, long after the experience has gone away” (A Moveable Feast). Even knowing that times turn dark do not stop us from our Palm Sunday celebrations.

Realizing that Ron’s earthly walk was coming to an end did not stop me from enjoying that last sunset we shared together on the boardwalk in Bethany Beach. The sun sank that evening, but in the dark days that followed I continued to recall the sound of the lapping ocean waves, the purples and pinks of the sky, the scent of the salted ocean air. The warmth of my husband’s hand in mine.

Moveable feasts might skip around the calendar, arriving on a rainy March or a sunny April. It is not the date itself that matters; it is the splendid memory that moves with us, down whatever road we are led. 

And, I pray, down whatever road you are led.