I know I’m a sinner and Christ is my need;
His death is my random, no merit I plead.
His work is sufficient, on Him I believe;
I have life eternal when Him I receive.
April 18, 2014 - It’s Good Friday.
Today was the day Jesus was accused. Betrayed. Sentenced as a prisoner. Whipped. Scourged. Splintered in already existing wounds by a large hunk of wood that he carried up a hill. Today His head bled from a thorny crown. He felt the crown press into His forehead. His wrists were pierced by archaic nails. He was propped up. On display. A reminder to the world what happens to men who defend the defenseless.
Today was the day Jesus died.
The day I became a mom destroyed me.
The moment our daughter was born, something catastrophic happened to my insides. It carved everything out that was in there before and replaced it with an intense, relentless and selfless love. I held her in my arms for the first time, and was enthralled. I stared at her eyes. Her skin. Her tiny strands of brown hair. Her little hands. Her smallness, overwhelming me as if she was a giant. When I held her I understood, the way I have understood few other things in my life: that I would lay down everything I had for her.
I would use my life to cover hers.
When she cries, I hurt and will do anything to console her. When she’s uncomfortable, I’m uncomfortable. When I can tell it’s been a hard day for her, when sleep hasn’t come, I’m not sad I’m not sleeping. I’m sad she’s not sleeping.
I would die for her, this little daughter of mine.
When it comes to Good Friday, and to Jesus’ choice to die on a cross, we approach it rather religiously.
“Thank you God, for bearing my sins.”
“By His stripes we are healed!”
(Status update) “Thankful for the cross, man.”
(Tweet) “For God so loved the world!”
(Instagram) “The veil has been torn!”
We say these things, but I wonder if they hit our hearts, or hit to the heart of the matter at all. We know Jesus died for us. But we hardly think to wonder why.
We approach the cross religiously. Instead of approaching it like babes.
The day my daughter was born I realized one thing: Having children is echoes of eternal things. I understood that the way I feel about my daughter, it’s human, and incomplete. And it’s incredible. It stands to reason, then, that the way my Father feels about me: my little hands, my smallness overwhelming Him would be that much more.
God loves His daughter. In a way that makes Him ache. When I cry, it’s devastating to Him. When I’m uncomfortable, He’s uncomfortable. This is why He makes a heaven for us with no more tears. When it came to Him laying down His life for us, it was a choice, but like the moment I held my littler girl for the first time, I knew – the choice had already been made. He would die for us and not even blink. He’s in love with us, I tell you.
As Easter weekend settles out of your mind, may this thought settle back in: it’s completely irreligious, how He feels about you. It’s devastating, His instant love for His babies. It’s eternal and earth-shattering, the lengths He’d go to keep you safe, to make you ok, to cover your life. Today may you get an image of a Father who could stare at His children all day. Who knew the moment of your creation exactly what lengths He would go to save you.
Today may you allow yourself to be loved as a babe.