Though I am a main subject of this blog, I have never written a post. However, on the occasion of my Grandpa’s death, I wanted to write something in his honor.
I love you Grandpa Borchers.
Nick
Reflections on the death of my Grandpa
At times of death we are always advised to trust God.
What does this mean?
If trusting in God means things will happen as we want,
then my trust is shattered.
I want to hear another story from Grandpa about working at Stolle’s;
I want to ask my Uncle Bob if the Reds can turn it around this year; and
I want to laugh with my cousin Nathan about random college stories.
Obviously, trusting God is not getting what we want.
So, what is it?
Ultimately, trusting in God is believing that life is bigger than what we see,
that our lives do not end.
I believe all three of these family members live on in me.
Grandpa lives on as I laugh at a corny joke.
Bob lives on as I squeeze every bit of excitement out of a normal day.
Nathan lives on as I experience the sheer joy of being with others.
Our loved ones don’t just live on in metaphorical ways.
They see what we do not, they see the big picture of our lives.
They understand the sadness we are experiencing now is just a phase,
a small blip in what will ultimately be unending joy and peace with God.
And when I pay close enough attention,
for a brief instant, I can feel their presence still with me.
They are not with me in the same way, but they are still with me.
The veil between me and them is thin and even transparent at times.
So, I know this summer on a hot afternoon
as I sit down with Isaiah to watch a Reds-Pirates game,
we will be surrounded by three other big baseball fans.
This belief in life allows me to truly trust in God during this difficult week.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
It's Not Just My Imagination
There are days where I wonder if there are some unexplained things about the relationship between mother and child. I mean, think about it, a growing human being forms his bones, blood, and organs INSIDE a woman's body. Everything the mother is, quite literally, is given to her child. It's quite extraordinary.
There are days when I just look at the little Meatball and wonder, how did this kid ever fit inside me? How did he come from me?
Well, I soon found the explanation.
While Nick was in El Salvador, I was busy trying to clean our office. The one room that is consistently neglected because, since no one else but Nick or I ever go in there, it never meets the "we should pick up the living room before so and so come over," or "we're having company over so make sure you scrub the toilet and vaccuum," requirements.
So, while I was hauling boxes of recycled paper out of the house and pouring through old papers, I came across one of my baby pictures. I saw it and I just stared. It was almost eerie.
It was the same feeling when Nick took this picture of me and Isaiah in the hospital. It was a feeling like, "I've seen this picture before somewhere, but I can't think of what picture it is."
I found the picture.
You tell me.
Is there some unexplained force that binds me with Isaiah?
I don't know.
But since we look like almost identical twins from birth, I'm open to anything.
There are days when I just look at the little Meatball and wonder, how did this kid ever fit inside me? How did he come from me?
Well, I soon found the explanation.
While Nick was in El Salvador, I was busy trying to clean our office. The one room that is consistently neglected because, since no one else but Nick or I ever go in there, it never meets the "we should pick up the living room before so and so come over," or "we're having company over so make sure you scrub the toilet and vaccuum," requirements.
So, while I was hauling boxes of recycled paper out of the house and pouring through old papers, I came across one of my baby pictures. I saw it and I just stared. It was almost eerie.
It was the same feeling when Nick took this picture of me and Isaiah in the hospital. It was a feeling like, "I've seen this picture before somewhere, but I can't think of what picture it is."
I found the picture.
You tell me.
Is there some unexplained force that binds me with Isaiah?
I don't know.
But since we look like almost identical twins from birth, I'm open to anything.
Monday, April 26, 2010
In Memory
There was no way to describe how nervous I was when I first met Nick's Grandpa Borchers back in 2004. I've never met anyone's grandparents before and the idea of meeting them was so nerve-wracking, I even called my mom beforehand to talk out my jitters.
She didn't help much. "Oh, this is a very big occassion. Make sure you wear a very nice outfit. Address them properly. Be yourself, but don't talk too much...." The suggestions went on and on.
That only added to the anxiety. Even my Dad made a follow-up call when I got home. "Well," he sounded like one of my grad school buds after I went out on a date, "what did you end up wearing?"
Dick was sitting in his recliner when I timidly walked over to be introduced. My parents advice was ringing in my head. His smile and handshake put me at ease and I let out a quick breath of relief that I got through the first five minutes. I doubt he ever knew how nervous I was to meet him, so I doubt he knew how much I appreciated that big, sincere smile that he gave me. I'm already a fan of electric smiles and infectious laughs, and I honestly don't think there are many better than Dick's. I can see his smile in his children, especially Rog and Linda, and it always makes me smile in recognition of its origin.
But my favorite memory of him had to have been when Nick and I came back from Nicaragua in 2007 after doing a mission trip together. Nick and I were separated into different groups and I was sent to dig ditches, deep into the earth, to help in the process of making latrines.
I could barely pick up the equipment, it was so heavy, and when I lowered myself into the ditch, I was, literally, in a hole so deep I couldn't feel the wind at all. And then I started to feel like I was baking in the soil. The sun was beating on me and no wind could reach me. I tried to think positive thoughts, but the labor was just too intense for me. After a few hapless attempts, I started coughing and got dizzy and climbed out. I returned to my ditch several times, but it was as obvious as a cloud on a perfect blue sky that I was not making much progress. I defended myself to Nick, "I was BAKING, baking I tell you, in that ditch. I felt like I was going to pass out!"
On our first trip to Russia after Nicaragua, Nick promptly told his grandparents of my suffering and how I was clearly not cut out for manual labor in the sun.
I didn't know how Dick would react to that story of my wimpy-ness, given that he was a hard-working farmer who could have at one time probably dug ten ditches in a day.
He loved it.
Over the years, every holiday or visit when I leaned over to greet him and shake his hand, he'd hold on to my hand for an extra second and ask, "Have you dug any ditches lately?" His hearty laugh followed when I smiled and emphatically shook my head NO and retold the details of my failure as a dirt digger. He really got a kick out of that. And Nick always got a kick out of his Grandpa getting a kick out of it.
I only knew Dick for the past six years, the last years of his life. Oftentimes, I marvel at how we can meet people in the last turn of their life, just as we are in the main throttle of our own. What a gift it is.
In a loving and resting peace, I imagine him now. And it's because of that mega-watt smile he shared with me that first day back in 2004 that I often try to smile at newcomers and make others comfortable in my home. It's always the small things in life that make a difference and leave an impact on others.
I'm just one of the many, I'm sure, who were touched by his life, family, and kindness.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tears Behind the Wheel
Have you ever cried while driving?
That's probably not the safest thing to do.
I mean, it's not as dangerous as drinking and driving or texting while driving, but CRYING has its own level of wrong, too.
I realized this as I was wiping away tears this morning after I took Isaiah to the doctor. The little Meatball is having a terrible week. Probably the worst in his four moths of existence.
Isaiah's been struggling with moderate eczema for quite some time and Nick and I have been playing detective, trying to figure out what triggers it or how we can relieve it. Last month we figured out that the space heater in his room is the culprit.
So we unplugged the darn thing and layered him in extra shirts and socks when he went to bed.
And then spring came.
His eczema flared last week and I wondered if maybe it's something in his milk. So I took out 99% of dairy in my diet.
No change.
This week, I gave up eggs. No change.
Poor little guy looked miserable. And I was having a breakdown watching his splotches begin to spread over his head, face, torso and arms. His little uncoordinated hands were scratching his head and belly while he cried and I would try to comfort him while I bawled myself.
What a mess.
So I took him to the doctor for three things: eczema, possible teething, and a bad cough.
Isaiah laughed and wiggled as the doctor examined him and thought the tongue stick to examine his mouth was the greatest thing ever and laughed in the doctor's face.
Despite the laughs, he had a low grade fever and his eczema needs some serious attention. I fired away with questions and more questions. Without Nick there to calmly interject something very Borchers-esque, my motor mouth went nuts. Luckily, the doctor didn't mind my fretting. (I assume fretting mothers are quite common in a pediatric setting.)
So, I hauled my 17.5lb elephant back to the car and got in the driver's seat to head to Rite Aid to pick up his prescriptions.
I kept glancing in my rear view mirror to see his baby mirror. He looked so much like Nick, but covered in red patches of itch, and handled everything so well. His skin, fever, and cough coupled with Nick's departure got the best of me and my tear ducts. And that's when the bawling happened and my vision blurred from crying.
And that's why I am writing to caution all who cry while driving - it's just as hazardous as texting.
You can't see ANYTHING.
That's probably not the safest thing to do.
I mean, it's not as dangerous as drinking and driving or texting while driving, but CRYING has its own level of wrong, too.
I realized this as I was wiping away tears this morning after I took Isaiah to the doctor. The little Meatball is having a terrible week. Probably the worst in his four moths of existence.
Isaiah's been struggling with moderate eczema for quite some time and Nick and I have been playing detective, trying to figure out what triggers it or how we can relieve it. Last month we figured out that the space heater in his room is the culprit.
So we unplugged the darn thing and layered him in extra shirts and socks when he went to bed.
And then spring came.
His eczema flared last week and I wondered if maybe it's something in his milk. So I took out 99% of dairy in my diet.
No change.
This week, I gave up eggs. No change.
Poor little guy looked miserable. And I was having a breakdown watching his splotches begin to spread over his head, face, torso and arms. His little uncoordinated hands were scratching his head and belly while he cried and I would try to comfort him while I bawled myself.
What a mess.
So I took him to the doctor for three things: eczema, possible teething, and a bad cough.
Isaiah laughed and wiggled as the doctor examined him and thought the tongue stick to examine his mouth was the greatest thing ever and laughed in the doctor's face.
Despite the laughs, he had a low grade fever and his eczema needs some serious attention. I fired away with questions and more questions. Without Nick there to calmly interject something very Borchers-esque, my motor mouth went nuts. Luckily, the doctor didn't mind my fretting. (I assume fretting mothers are quite common in a pediatric setting.)
So, I hauled my 17.5lb elephant back to the car and got in the driver's seat to head to Rite Aid to pick up his prescriptions.
I kept glancing in my rear view mirror to see his baby mirror. He looked so much like Nick, but covered in red patches of itch, and handled everything so well. His skin, fever, and cough coupled with Nick's departure got the best of me and my tear ducts. And that's when the bawling happened and my vision blurred from crying.
And that's why I am writing to caution all who cry while driving - it's just as hazardous as texting.
You can't see ANYTHING.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Growth off the Charts
Bleh. I hate when Nick is gone.
He left this morning at 3:45am to catch his 6am flight to El Salvador. Meanwhile, my mom has arrived to help take care of Isaiah and my sister is moving in to the third floor upstairs. All the Factora women in one household - it's like a huge slumber party for Isaiah.
Speaking of our favorite meatball, yesterday he officially turned 4 months old and looks every bit of it as well. According to my mom who saw him last 3 weeks ago, when she feasted her eyes on him again, she couldn't believe the length of his legs. I didn't know what else to say except, "I know. I know. I know."
When I hold Isaiah, I feel like I'm holding onto a very soft baby elephant. There are days when I just can't friggin believe how strong he is. My sister-in-law and mother were gazing at him yesterday in his car seat and Suzi commented,"You might want to start thinking about upgrading your car seat. Uh, his feet are starting to dangle over the edge." I glanced down. She was right.
Guess what else Isaiah is up to? TEETHING.
Yes, TEETHING.
I was wondering what's been up with the buckets of drool flapping out of his mouth the past two weeks and his munching on his hand immediately after he's eaten and him barreling down on his bottom lip like he needs his gums to be in contact with something. Suzi said, "They may not be popping out, but that doesn't mean he's already teething."
And then my mom asked, "Are you sure he's not yet ready for solids?"
And that's when my head exploded.
NEW CAR SEATS. TEETHING. SOLIDS.
I complained like a little girl to my mom, "What the hell are all those books good for if they're not preparing me in time for Isaiah's development? He's not supposed to be teething or eating solids yet, say the books I'm reading."
And the common sense advice reply, "Well, those book are written for the average timeline of a baby. Isaiah may not be average."
When I consider how his onesies are 12-18 months and starting to get tight in length, that might make sense.
Meanwhile, Nick takes off to El Salvador for five days and I'm left with an elephant of a son and a stomach full of battery acid because of Nick's international travels.
Screw the books. I'm listening to my mother.
He left this morning at 3:45am to catch his 6am flight to El Salvador. Meanwhile, my mom has arrived to help take care of Isaiah and my sister is moving in to the third floor upstairs. All the Factora women in one household - it's like a huge slumber party for Isaiah.
Speaking of our favorite meatball, yesterday he officially turned 4 months old and looks every bit of it as well. According to my mom who saw him last 3 weeks ago, when she feasted her eyes on him again, she couldn't believe the length of his legs. I didn't know what else to say except, "I know. I know. I know."
When I hold Isaiah, I feel like I'm holding onto a very soft baby elephant. There are days when I just can't friggin believe how strong he is. My sister-in-law and mother were gazing at him yesterday in his car seat and Suzi commented,"You might want to start thinking about upgrading your car seat. Uh, his feet are starting to dangle over the edge." I glanced down. She was right.
Guess what else Isaiah is up to? TEETHING.
Yes, TEETHING.
I was wondering what's been up with the buckets of drool flapping out of his mouth the past two weeks and his munching on his hand immediately after he's eaten and him barreling down on his bottom lip like he needs his gums to be in contact with something. Suzi said, "They may not be popping out, but that doesn't mean he's already teething."
And then my mom asked, "Are you sure he's not yet ready for solids?"
And that's when my head exploded.
NEW CAR SEATS. TEETHING. SOLIDS.
I complained like a little girl to my mom, "What the hell are all those books good for if they're not preparing me in time for Isaiah's development? He's not supposed to be teething or eating solids yet, say the books I'm reading."
And the common sense advice reply, "Well, those book are written for the average timeline of a baby. Isaiah may not be average."
When I consider how his onesies are 12-18 months and starting to get tight in length, that might make sense.
Meanwhile, Nick takes off to El Salvador for five days and I'm left with an elephant of a son and a stomach full of battery acid because of Nick's international travels.
Screw the books. I'm listening to my mother.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Sunday Weigh-In: Round 5
It's a bit late to post it now, but just so you're aware that I am now WINNING...
Even when I'm sick, I'll never be so sick that I cannot compete.
Recovery
I've been recovering from some nasty virus this week. Doctor said it's just one of those things you catch during spring that makes you feel like you're underwater and can't hear anything cause your ears are plugged, like your legs weigh 8726 lbs because they're achy and heavy, like it's middle of summer because of a low grade fever, like you're part robot part frog because of laryngitis, like you want to suffocate yourself with your own pillow because you are miserable.
But, I'm slowly getting better.
Nick had to take a couple days off from work to take care of Isaiah so I don't breathe on him at all.
Ugh.
So, this week hasn't been the greatest and, from the inside of my house, it looks to be a beautiful spring. Too gosh darn bad I'm allergic to it.
Don't forget to stop and smell the flowers (unless you're allergic to the pollen, like me.)
Isaiah certainly has.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Isaiah's First Easter
I'm sick as a dog! Ugh, I hate it.
I'm stuck in bed and took the opportunity to finish a belated video for Isaiah's first Easter...Enjoy!
I'm stuck in bed and took the opportunity to finish a belated video for Isaiah's first Easter...Enjoy!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Changes of Spring
And suddenly, in Isaiah's world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.
And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.
Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.
It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.
When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.
The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.
Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.
That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.
Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.
For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.
Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.
And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.
Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.
It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.
When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.
The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.
Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.
That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.
Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.
For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.
Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
My Good Friday Homily
Today, I will be fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine: to deliver a "homily" at a Catholic church service. Because it is Good Friday, and it is not technically a mass, lay parishioners are allowed to deliver a reflection. This year, I was asked to offer my thoughts.
When I was growing up, I always knew better than to ask my mom if I was allowed to do anything during Holy Week. On our refrigerator, she would post the church bulletin and with a highlighter, go through and underline every single mass, reconciliation time, and service offered. I was the youngest of four and all of us were expected to attend, no matter what was going on. No exceptions.
It got really difficult when I was in high school. And since it was Easter break, people would have all kinds of get-togethers and parties. And since we were on vacation, you knew everyone was going to be there. Everyone, that is, but me. One time, though, I did get the nerve to ask my mom if I could go to a party. She just raised her eyebrows at me and say, “Lisa, are you going to a party on the day of our Lord’s death?”
So, you can imagine, I did not go.
I didn’t want to be a party-goer during Good Friday, so I just thought to myself, “This is just a sacrifice I’ll make by staying home.” All the while, though, I was wishing I was with my friends. Remember, as a teenager, staying home on a Friday night of vacation was a really, big deal.
My mom was right. Today is a day, among many things, about grief. It is a day typically marked with solemnity, a sobering awareness that’s almost palpable. Good Friday is when we relive the most intense story in the gospel – the Passion. It is a time that we, typically and appropriately, regard with mourning and reflective hearts. It is, after all, the day that Jesus dies.
How do we move into these hours? Is it with heavy hearts? Spiritually, that makes sense. But is there more to Good Friday than just the quiet grief and observation of Jesus’ death? Perhaps it is more than just staying home and self-sacrifice. Perhaps it is more than just the quiet 3 o’clock hour.
Personally, I know that I am able to move through this darkness because I know the light of the resurrection is but stone roll away. I have heard the sounds of Easter before, I have seen Easter lilies bloom. I have the strength to move through the darkness of Good Friday because I know and believe that today will pass. Friday passes into Holy Saturday and Holy Saturday gives way to a Sunday miracle.
But, is that what I want my Good Friday to be about? Waiting for Sunday? What is your Good Friday about? Perhaps Good Friday is the opportunity to find and witness someone else’s passion. Who in your world, who in your life, who in your heart do you know is dying? Who are those people in your life whose tomorrow, next week, and all the days of this year will be Good Friday?
Today we gather and remember the suffering of Christ. It’s easy to be overcome by the physicality of Jesus’ suffering: the scourging, the crown of thorns, three falls of Christ. But what haunts me the most about the Passion is that Jesus, who walked in the knowledge, faith, and trust that he was God’s son, believed that he was abandoned by God. Jesus! I cannot think of a more crushing anguish or more profound loneliness than to believe you have been forgotten, even forsaken, by God. The one who created you.
Someone, somewhere today is going through precisely that pain, that division from God, believing that they are forgotten. Beyond these walls, or maybe within these walls there are those who are living the Good Friday that Jesus experienced. I don’t know any one in my life who endured the brutal violence Jesus did, but I do know people who are going through the psychological and spiritual trauma Jesus did. In my world, I see my friend Katherine who is ostracized from her family because she is a lesbian and is no longer invited to her family’s Easter celebrations. I see a place called Payatas, a community I visited in the Philippines that lives at the base of dumpster where the people sift through the garbage with their bare hands for food that can be recooked for their families. I see my friend Emily who has been trying but has not been able to conceive a child for many years. I think of my mother who is walking with her mother through the last stages of life.
Who in your life is in the darkness? And who are we to be afraid to bring light to them? If Good Friday is anything, it is a day to put aside any fear we may have, and let the light of God move the stone from someone’s tomb.
How do we do that? For myself, I write letters. I send handwritten letters on ordinary days. I try not to wait for holidays or birthdays or anniversaries to remind someone they are not forgotten. This may seem very small or just a crack at their seemingly insurmountable suffering, but I am often amazed at how much light comes through one small crack. But what is even more astounding to witness is how much darkness is dispelled by that crack.
To truly follow Christ is not just observing his death, but remembering why he died. Jesus was killed because he brought light to those in darkness. So, perhaps today is more than just brokenness and sacrifice. Perhaps it is a day not to enter, not be enveloped, not become one with the darkness, but to be the light, however small.
I would like to leave you with one question and I hope you can come back to it often as you move through your Good Friday: What will you do to dispel the darkness?
When I was growing up, I always knew better than to ask my mom if I was allowed to do anything during Holy Week. On our refrigerator, she would post the church bulletin and with a highlighter, go through and underline every single mass, reconciliation time, and service offered. I was the youngest of four and all of us were expected to attend, no matter what was going on. No exceptions.
It got really difficult when I was in high school. And since it was Easter break, people would have all kinds of get-togethers and parties. And since we were on vacation, you knew everyone was going to be there. Everyone, that is, but me. One time, though, I did get the nerve to ask my mom if I could go to a party. She just raised her eyebrows at me and say, “Lisa, are you going to a party on the day of our Lord’s death?”
So, you can imagine, I did not go.
I didn’t want to be a party-goer during Good Friday, so I just thought to myself, “This is just a sacrifice I’ll make by staying home.” All the while, though, I was wishing I was with my friends. Remember, as a teenager, staying home on a Friday night of vacation was a really, big deal.
My mom was right. Today is a day, among many things, about grief. It is a day typically marked with solemnity, a sobering awareness that’s almost palpable. Good Friday is when we relive the most intense story in the gospel – the Passion. It is a time that we, typically and appropriately, regard with mourning and reflective hearts. It is, after all, the day that Jesus dies.
How do we move into these hours? Is it with heavy hearts? Spiritually, that makes sense. But is there more to Good Friday than just the quiet grief and observation of Jesus’ death? Perhaps it is more than just staying home and self-sacrifice. Perhaps it is more than just the quiet 3 o’clock hour.
Personally, I know that I am able to move through this darkness because I know the light of the resurrection is but stone roll away. I have heard the sounds of Easter before, I have seen Easter lilies bloom. I have the strength to move through the darkness of Good Friday because I know and believe that today will pass. Friday passes into Holy Saturday and Holy Saturday gives way to a Sunday miracle.
But, is that what I want my Good Friday to be about? Waiting for Sunday? What is your Good Friday about? Perhaps Good Friday is the opportunity to find and witness someone else’s passion. Who in your world, who in your life, who in your heart do you know is dying? Who are those people in your life whose tomorrow, next week, and all the days of this year will be Good Friday?
Today we gather and remember the suffering of Christ. It’s easy to be overcome by the physicality of Jesus’ suffering: the scourging, the crown of thorns, three falls of Christ. But what haunts me the most about the Passion is that Jesus, who walked in the knowledge, faith, and trust that he was God’s son, believed that he was abandoned by God. Jesus! I cannot think of a more crushing anguish or more profound loneliness than to believe you have been forgotten, even forsaken, by God. The one who created you.
Someone, somewhere today is going through precisely that pain, that division from God, believing that they are forgotten. Beyond these walls, or maybe within these walls there are those who are living the Good Friday that Jesus experienced. I don’t know any one in my life who endured the brutal violence Jesus did, but I do know people who are going through the psychological and spiritual trauma Jesus did. In my world, I see my friend Katherine who is ostracized from her family because she is a lesbian and is no longer invited to her family’s Easter celebrations. I see a place called Payatas, a community I visited in the Philippines that lives at the base of dumpster where the people sift through the garbage with their bare hands for food that can be recooked for their families. I see my friend Emily who has been trying but has not been able to conceive a child for many years. I think of my mother who is walking with her mother through the last stages of life.
Who in your life is in the darkness? And who are we to be afraid to bring light to them? If Good Friday is anything, it is a day to put aside any fear we may have, and let the light of God move the stone from someone’s tomb.
How do we do that? For myself, I write letters. I send handwritten letters on ordinary days. I try not to wait for holidays or birthdays or anniversaries to remind someone they are not forgotten. This may seem very small or just a crack at their seemingly insurmountable suffering, but I am often amazed at how much light comes through one small crack. But what is even more astounding to witness is how much darkness is dispelled by that crack.
To truly follow Christ is not just observing his death, but remembering why he died. Jesus was killed because he brought light to those in darkness. So, perhaps today is more than just brokenness and sacrifice. Perhaps it is a day not to enter, not be enveloped, not become one with the darkness, but to be the light, however small.
I would like to leave you with one question and I hope you can come back to it often as you move through your Good Friday: What will you do to dispel the darkness?
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