In the shadow of the cross, how can you give thanks?

I know I’ve written about this before, but I can’t get if out of my head – those three days in-between Jesus’ death and resurrection.

This is the part where you start to wonder – was it all real?

He told us He would rise from the dead, but we didn’t believe Him. So when they took Him and nailed His body to the cross – because He really was just flesh and bone, like us – and when they took Him down hours later, dead, and a hard-faced Roman soldier who had looked into death’s face a thousand times didn’t blink, we didn’t know anymore.

And someone who had loved Him went and pleaded for His body, and laid Him in his own tomb. He had to do something. 

I can’t write out this kind of pain.

We hid – we looked around in the dirt and tried to find our broken pieces, and we couldn’t see anything.

Somehow, “On the night when the Lord Jesus was handed over to be killed, he took bread and gave thanks for it,” knowing fully what would happen in the next twenty-four hours. 

And oh, it’s so dark right now. We’re waiting – we don’t know what for, but we’re waiting.


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