Holy Week

“Wait,” I said, a strange feeling rising in my throat. “Isn’t this about Holy Week? Your Holy Week?”

“Not mine.” I could tell the smile came from his heart. “Yours.”

I froze and grasped his arm. “Mine?” My voice was thin, for I knew my Bible. Am I–like–going to die soon? Is that what this is about?”

excerpt from “Holy Week” authored by Carol Lynn Pearson

I LOVE this piece by Carol Lynn Pearson. I am taking some artistic liberties and taking a page of “Holy Week” that reflects my life experiences thus far.

Easter Will Come by Chaun Jacobs

The return address said “Your Friend Jesus.” I’d never heard from him this directly before, and my hand trembled as I opened the envelope.

You are invited to join me

in a journey to the Holy Land

for an observance of

Holy Week.

I will knock.  

RSVP

I was stunned. I hadn’t spoken to Jesus in a while. But I’m not about to deny the honor of witnessing such a historic event. I accepted. That night I did a quick refresher on the Easter story so I wouldn’t slow Him down with obvious questions.

When the knock came, I was ready. Hands trembling with nerves, I opened the door to him. Before me stood the Lord himself, his hand reaching out to me.                                                                                

“Hello!” I smiled, smoothing fly-aways back.

“Hello,” he smiled back.

I looked around for the car, the tour bus, the shuttle.

“This journey,” he said, “is taken step by step.” 

“Oh.” I should have worn better shoes. “Where are the others?” I asked.

“This journey,” he said, “is always taken alone. Except for me. It’s a simple journey. I lead. You follow.”

We walked off the porch and faced my sidewalk. “We are going to the Holy Land?” I queried, looking about at the ordinary, familiar paths I had walked every day, year after year.

“There is no holier land than this,” he replied.

“But it is–an observance of Holy Week?” I hoped I hadn’t misunderstood.

“It is,” he answered. “Holy Week. We will begin here, with Palm Sunday.” 

I looked where he indicated, ready to be drawn into past to personally witness the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the Lord being welcomed with waving palm fronds, garlands of flowers, a joyous celebration.

There was no triumphant entry. In fact, I didn’t see Jesus anywhere.

“But that’s–me!” I said, recognizing the scenes flashing before us. “That’s just last week when my boss gave me an award! And then–oh–the births of my babies! And our hikes in the mountains! What wonderful days those were!”

“Ah, a memorable Palm Sunday.”

 “Wait,” I said, unable to fight that strange feeling rising in my throat. “Isn’t this about Holy Week?”

“Not mine.” I could tell the smile came from his heart. “Yours.”

I froze in fear. The blood drained from my face. I had just reviewed the gory details in the Bible last week. Jesus offered me his arm for support. “Mine?” My voice was thin.”Am I–like–going to die soon? Is that what this is about?”

“Not the big death,” he said. “That will come later. First come the small deaths.” 

“Deaths?”  I heard a crack in my voice. “You said deaths–as in plural?”

 “Several, perhaps many.” 

“But they’re… small?”

“They won’t feel small at the time.”

I let go of his arm, crossing my own as I turned away from him. His words didn’t make sense, but they felt ominous. I felt tricked. I’d been betrayed by many, but Jesus wasn’t supposed to be that kind of person. This wasn’t playing out how I’d expected. I wondered if it was too late to go back and forget all of this.

“There’s no going back,” he said gently. “I played out my Holy Week–not only to assure your resurrection from the big death–but to give you a pattern of resurrection from the small deaths.”

Shame and repentance filled my heart. I’d already forgotten why I’d come. To observe Holy Week. How could I ignore the wisdom from the one who had suffered the most? Of course I would have to suffer life’s pains and trials

“The next day we observe is Maundy Thursday.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. I remembered the events of that day. The Last Supper. The Garden of Gethsemane. The betrayal. The anguish. 

“Look!”  The Lord encouraged, hand on my shoulder.

 I pried my eyes open. Before me, I saw scenes in a private garden.  No apostles.  No soldiers.  No olive trees. 

It was Me.  And betrayal laden by stripes on my back. 

“Cancer . . . mom’s uncertain future . . .” 

“Domestic abuse. . . tell no one . . .” 

“Frustration . . . why can’t dedicated mothers also be employed?”

“Miscarriage . . . three unborn babies go back to heaven . . .”

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder . . . suicide ideation . . .”

Scenes of my past traumas blended into each other. One after another we witnessed disappointment . . . discouragement . . . depression . . . loneliness . . . crushing defeat . . .

Finally, I saw myself alone in the garden, broken by life’s many betrayals. I saw myself – alone on my knees, heart bleeding, and weeping. Tears well.

“These times in my life were awful,” I said

“They were immensely difficult,” Jesus agreed. “And more are yet to come.”

“More?!” I whirled at the Lord in shock. “But- I’ve done the work! I’ve completed therapy. I turned the abuser into the police. I married a good man and I’m a devoted mother. I even created a peaceful, simple lifestyle. I’ve overcome the things that broke me. I’ve already overcome my Gethsemane!”

Hot tears fell. Deep down inside I knew life is long and there are pains I’ve yet to know. But I cannot help sinking in despair at the thought of experiencing betrayals again.

 “More betrayals will come,” he repeated, “betrayals like these. You will kneel in your garden, and you will weep. You will not bleed, but, oh, you will weep.”

I said nothing. The hot tears still flow. I am in desperate need of a tissue.

Jesus continues, “Your Holy Weeks will come. Your only choice is whether you experience them alone–or with me.” 

I squeeze my eyes shut. Jesus sees my expression. He gently invites me to share what’s on my heart.

“I just don’t understand why you would experience these traumas with me. Why should you suffer when it’s my problem? Nobody should have to endure what I have.”

Jesus says nothing. He only cocks his head a little. He knows that I will keep talking, mostly in circles, until I find the answer.

“Do you really have to suffer with me?”

“I already have, child.”

I ponder what this means. I think of the chemo appointments my mother endured, with my grandmother chaperoning every visit. How grandma’s heart must have broken to see her baby girl like that. I think of how my mom chaperoned me during a nervous breakdown and drove me all over the county searching for the right psychiatric care. As a grown woman with a family of her own, I felt a little ashamed needing my parents to take care of me like a child again.

“I’m not really comfortable dumping my burden on others.” I admit

“I know. Will you allow yourself to try at least once?”

A long moment passes. “I guess.”

He offered his arm again and we walked on. “Good Friday,” he gestured. 

I looked and saw myself, bowed down with a small cross laden across my back. “Ah!” I said. “I am ashamed to bow under such small sorrow.”                                         

 “Do not compare the weights. I was given my cross,” he said, “and you are given yours. Now hear. Surrender to the crushing weight. Your hands are tied, you are brought low, stripped of pride. When you fall, stand again.  There is fatigue, there is defeat, but stand again. Loved ones along the way weep for you. Let them. Hands reach out to wipe your face. Let them. And let your words be words of forgiveness, for your betrayer knows not what he does.”

I think of the man who abused me. “But, Lord, he did know what he was doing.”

“To some degree, yes. The soldiers knew they were killing me. But they knew not the depths of their sin. That man knew he hurt you, but he is a separate person from you. He can never fully understand the damage of his sins.”

We walk on. Fear trickles into me like a bead of sweat down the neck.

Jesus narrated, “Life as you knew it on Palm Sunday–is no more.”

“Entombed?”

“Yes. A heavy rock over the entry.”

We keep walking.

“And now the darkness,” he said. “Do not fight the darkness. Saturday of darkness is holy too.”

I looked. I saw myself lying on my bed. My cheeks were gaunt, staring blankly at the ceiling. So still. So empty inside.

“Rest,” he said. “Reflect. Wait. Trust the darkness. There is no need to fear.” 

I waited. I watched my sad, still face on the bed. Darkness creeps into the room. No lamp is switched on. No candle is lit. It is so dark. So small and alone and empty. The room fades away until there is nothing but blackness. I look beyond and scour the sky for a hint of morning.                             

“Easter will come,” he said. “Wait.”

He ushers me on through the darkness. When my steps slow, he lays his arm around my shoulders. “Trust the darkness. Trust me.”

A slice of light. Tiny. Another. Slowly as morning–ah, it was morning–becoming, slowly becoming. No moment to mark it, so slowly. We have returned to my grief-stricken body on the bed. The light, first falling on my sad face – but then coming from my face! My body rising from this small death. Sitting.  Standing. Accepting the light. Becoming the light.

“I’ve never seen myself–look like that!” I say in astonishment. “I’m more than I was before!”

“Ah, my friend–” I could hear sunrise in his voice–“this is the secret of Easter. Life after death–is always larger than life before death.”

“Easter.” I spoke the word in awe. Such freedom. There was the sound of a giant stone rolling away.

“Observe the pattern,” he said. “Hear me again. Surrender. Carry your burden the best you can. Trust the darkness. Especially–trust in your loved ones. In yourself. If you don’t, it can be a very long time until morning.”

“But however long it takes,” he said, “however painful your Friday, however dark your Saturday, I will be with you every moment–promising the celebration of Easter morning.  For Holy Week I came into the world.” 

We walked further down the path.

“I believe in the pattern. I know I can do the work. And I even want to trust, Lord. But… it feels unnatural. That was not my way.”

“I know.” He says, putting my hand back on the crook of his arm. “I only ask that you try. Allow Easter to come.”

“Easter Will Come” authored by Chaun Jacobs

Original piece “Holy Week” authored by Carol Lynn Pearson