Moving through the waiting

I pray better, I wait better, I survive better, when I'm moving.

When there are things that can be a distraction.

When there is motion that can be a focus.

And so, on this day that is so marked by the waiting for resurrection, I've moved.

I grocery shopped and visited the library.

I went to the post office, and stopped off at my parent's home.

I looked through cookbooks with L., planning some new meals to add to our regular fare.

I did laundry.

And cleaned my bedroom.

And swept the kitchen floor.

I vacuumed George.

And scrubbed his dashboard and other surfaces.

And fed him with gasoline.

I remembered to be thankful when malfunction with my seat in George stopped long enough for me to move the seat to the right spot, making it easier to drive.

I worked through several lists of things that needed to be done, cleaned, or accomplished.

And now, now I'm getting ready to settle down a little.

To read and pray and actively wait.

To prepare for the week ahead (though thankfully, I don't have to return to work until Tuesday).

To let quiet overcome the need for movement, and hopefully bring peace.

The Day Between

This is the day between.

The day the disciples hid in an upper room, their world falling apart. Angry, fearful, shocked, grieving the loss of the one to whom they'd devoted the last three years of their life. The one they'd lived with, eaten with, slept near. Their teacher, the one they'd thought would change the whole world order. Their friend.

His body was laying in a stranger's grave.

And it was sabbath. They weren't permitted to work, or to be near the grave, so they gathered and waited, wondering if the wave of hatred that had stolen him from them, would come for them next.

~~~

This is the day between.

The day that life and light and hope lies temporarily buried.

I know the end of the story.

And yet, today I reflect on the grief, and the emptiness.

And I wait.

I fill the waiting, the grieving, the emptiness, in my own ways.

Moving on with life in a simple way. Groceries. Cookbooks. Maybe a walk in the park.

~~~

This is the day between.

And I am waiting.

Via Dolorosa

As I listened to this song being performed this morning, it hit my heart deeply. Isaiah 53 has also been deeply on my heart today.

Tenebrae

It's Good Friday. I hate that name. It's such ridiculous thing to call a day marked by bloodshed, by darkness, by hatred "good". Years ago, as a small child, I memorized a prayer for this day, a prayer that has stayed with me all these years. It began "Lord, it seems so strange to call a day like this Good Friday."

I always feel Holy Week deeply. And Friday is always the hardest day.

I head for the mountains, not because they help or bring comfort, but because at least there, unlike the city, there seems to be space large enough to hold the brokenness and suffering without it being absolutely crushing.

I'm attending a service called Tenebrae this morning with my roommate and some friends. It's the only service I've ever attended that seems to fit this day. It's an ancient ritual, involving candles and darkness. You walk into a dim room, lit only by a few candles. Move through reflections on shadows. Songs. Scriptures. Reflections. As the passion narrative progresses, the shadows grow deeper - candles are snuffed until finally only the Christ candle remains. And then, that too is snuffed out, and you simply leave, in silence.

After Tenebrae we'll have lunch together and then L. and I will go to the mountains. We'll stop at a place I've loved and just sit for awhile. L. will take photos, and I'll likely write for a while. And then we'll head off together to take more photos, and round out the day with a trip to the hot springs.

It'll likely be quiet here for the rest of the weekend. The only thoughts likely to make it here (if any at all) will be reflections on the progression of the rest of Holy Week, and the deep longing and need for the arrival of resurrection.

My heart has been numb, but today it is beginning to hurt again, and I am needing to allow space for that. To let myself feel and think and experience. To search for Jesus and peace. To pray, and simply be quiet.

Maundy Thursday

It's only 20 minutes or so until midnight, and I'm sitting propped in bed, with the full moon peeking at me between the gap in my blind and the edge of my window.

Maundy Thursday.

I worked a full day today.

And then joined my friend Faye and her boyfriend at a Maundy Thursday dinner she'd read about. Turns out it was a rather small gathering, and we were definitely the only strangers in the bunch.

But that was okay.

The small rituals made it unique. Washing each other's hands before eating. Sharing communion prior to the meal with friends and strangers around the table. The bread of life. The cup of abundance. Their words to go with an ages old ritual.

We joined them upstairs, to walk through some reflections, light candles, and walk a prayer labyrinth carefully laid out. A slow walk, to the center, then back out. This is a method of prayer I'd like to experience again in the future, when I'm a bit less exhausted, and have had time to quiet my heart enough to truly pray. And yet, even with a heart that was broken, exhausted, and oh so distracted, there were moments when I sensed Jesus speaking, or at least drawing nearer as I walked.

After the labyrinth, the three of us walked along the river, and a ridge overlooking downtown, winding our way back through China town (stopping for spring rolls and bubble tea) and eventually back to our vehicles.

But mostly, these days, on Maundy Thursday I think of blood shed. The words of the communion ritual we commemorate, and I think of how, my baby brother T. had the bone in his wrist shortened last year on Maundy Thursday. That's his scarred wrist pictured above. A week from tomorrow he will have his third surgery in as many years, this time to remove the screws and plates put in place during last year's surgery. They are irritating the tendons, and it remains impossible to tell if the last surgery successfully solved his condition.

And so, on this Maundy Thursday, I find myself thinking again of T. and of blood shed. Of the need for healing. Of a body broken and blood poured out that healing might be offered. And the tiny parts of my heart that cling to the hope for a miracle are crying out again for healing for oh so many.