My prayer on Good Friday was, “Lord, bring to death anything in me that is not like you.” That afternoon, I had planned to spend time reading with a new friend who is also a writer. While enjoying a table full of scrumptious goodies and surrounded by artifacts she collects from all over the world, we talked for hours about spiritual things. We talked so long, in fact, we gave up on reading our pieces and gave ourselves fully to the topic at hand. It was a God-ordained meeting, it seemed, and I was humbled and awestruck to spend my good Friday in such a vein.
Her heart, so open and searching–mine, so quick to focus on any agenda, somehow met in the middle and found that the Savior had already been expecting us.
The next day found me at a unique Seder (Passover Meal), one that linked parallels with the African American experience and the Jewish one of enslavement and exodus. Amid the matzo toast and bitter herbs, the readings and even a song sung in Hebrew by the woman of the house, we discussed the slavery of our literal and spiritual history and our own personal lives, and the freedom God wrought in both.
And then on Resurrection Sunday, church was packed like the old days. The drama, the music, the open hearts and raised hands, the feet that made it to the altar, the eager desire for more of Him, and salvation of souls. Easter fell hard on us with fresh meaning…like the latter rain we have all been longing for.
Ahhh….what an exultation for a soul like mine. I struggled hard for many years to understand the Cross, the Blood, the Sacrifice. God answers me, giving me small bites that build and build until I am able to digest him–the body, broken. The blood, like wine, filling my cup until it overflows. He is risen, Hallelujah. He is risen indeed! What a blessing.