© Can Stock Photo / Bialasiewicz
Every
year during Holy Week, I relive this experience.
Palm
Sunday. I was the only one up, enjoying a rare moment of quiet, and rather than
rouse everyone for church, I selfishly decided to stay home and read the
scripture.
The familiar words became intensely personal.
Jesus willingly suffered that horrendous death for me, not just for my sins, but
in my place. He died instead of me.
Overwhelmed, I collapsed into my arms and sobbed.
I had to go to church, even if I had to crawl the entire way on my hands and
knees.
My husband sat up when I opened the closet and snatched out pants and a blouse.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for church.”
“Now?”
“I have twenty minutes to get there. You don’t have to come.”
“I want to. Just give me a moment.”
“No, you’ll take too long, especially the kids. They aren’t even up yet. There’s no time to fuss with them about getting dressed.”
Ignoring me, he jumped from bed and disappeared into the bathroom.
To my surprise, when I exited the bedroom, everyone was ready. Even the kids.
All. Three. Of. Them. A miracle.
As we raced across town, I recited my usual mantra, “Better late than never.”
We pulled into—an empty parking lot.
I didn’t understand. According to the clock, we were ten minutes late. Where was everyone?
My husband pointed to a sign beside the door. Services had been moved back a half hour this one Sunday only. Instead of being late, we were twenty minutes early. How had I missed the announcement? Stuffing that question into the back of my mind, we shuffled in and sat in our usual pew.
One moment I sat next to my family, the next I stood in a white void, but not
alone. Jesus was there. He opened His arms and beckoned me. I ran into his embrace.
I felt muscle and bone beneath His white garment. While the cloth looked like soft linen, the coarse weave, similar to burlap, pressed into my skin. I ignored the roughness and snuggled closer. In His arms there was no sorrow, no pain, no fear, only joy the world could never offer. I wanted nothing, needed nothing.
Unbidden, my sins paraded behind my closed eyelids. Too many. I did not deserve to be in His presence, let alone touching Him. I drew back, hanging my head in shame.
He urged me to look at Him. His eyes held no accusation. He loved me just as I
was—flawed and imperfect. It did not matter how many times I failed, only how hard
I tried.
My heart filled with joy and I reached for him, but the deep sorrow in His eyes stopped my advance. He directed my gaze toward a huge pit of fire. Black smoke roiled over white-hot flames.
“You will walk through an inferno, not as a result of your sins, but as a natural part of your life. You will endure great pain.”
“I can’t! I won’t be able to bear it.”
His eyes told me I had no choice.
Bracing myself for a horrific blast of heat, I stepped into the pit. His
hand reached through the flames and grasped mine. As long as I held onto Him,
my faith, the fire would never burn me, and He would be waiting on the other
side.
With my next breath, I was back in church sitting beside my family. I touched
my cheek. The impression of his garment remained, so did the ecstasy of His
embrace. I closed my eyes, unwilling to return to the world.
Life went on, but not as before. Everything had changed, especially me. The comfort and assurance of that experience followed me through every moment of my day, through all the heartaches and challenges, blessing me with more divine interactions and miracles.
Thank you, Lord, for loving me enough to die for me, and for the compassion and encouragement you continue to give despite my frequent falls from grace. Amen.
