Two years ago today, the journey of losing my innocence began. Nearing the end of my first trimester carrying Weston, heavy bleeding began at the park. It was not the worst day, and it is not the worst "anniversary," but it is quite symbolic to me, as it (unknowingly then) changed the course of my life.
If April 18, 2012 was the beginning of a journey, it, by necessity, signified the end of something else: a relatively carefree and oblivious life. It was the first of many crossroads.
Today, April 18, 2014, is Good Friday, in which Christians observe the death of Jesus. The significance of these two "anniversaries" occurring on the same day is not lost on me.
Lent ended yesterday. (Lent is the roughly 40-day period preceding Easter in which Christians prepare their hearts for the events of Holy Week, which include the death and resurrection of Jesus.) There are fasting days, and people who observe Lent usually forgo some luxury (Facebook, sweets, etc.). For the past several years, I have read Lent readers (daily meditations on various Lenten themes), and for the past two years I have done additional spiritual explorations/projects.
Last year and this year, I consciously decided I am NOT giving up anything for Lent. I feel that I already "gave up" Weston, however involuntarily, so I cannot bear to give up anything else, at least this point in my life. Last week, a blogger I follow, who writes about losing THREE children, among other things, made the identical statement. So, right or wrong in my feelings about Lent, I know that I am not alone.
The last two weeks have been full of highs and lows: a growing, healthy baby (29 weeks tomorrow and the size of a butternut squash!). Missing my baby. A road trip to see my family. People I love having health struggles. A hayride, a hike, and roasting marshmallows. Being judged for my grief. Birthdays. Unexpected flashbacks and nightmares. Seeing an old friend. Insomnia. New crown molding. Yet another allergic reaction, complete with a visit from the paramedics.
(Regarding the last item, everything turned out fine: Caroline is OK, and…what could be better for a kid than to see an ambulance and fire truck up close?!)
I haven't done much to observe Holy Week this week, and my soul feels it. We didn't even have time to go to church today because our schedule was too full. Finally, I had some time this evening to catch up and reflect. I have been reading a daily lectionary (selected Scriptures) and was struck by the mix of despair and hope in today's selection.
For me, today's date marks the beginning of the darkest road I have ever walked. For Christians, myself included, today is the darkest day of the year. Acknowledging it and reflecting on it is essential to fully appreciate and truly rejoice in the coming observance of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. The darkness, suffering, and despair of Good Friday has drawn close to me in the last two years. As odd as it may sound, it brings me comfort and hope: Jesus can empathize with the pain I have experienced, because he has been there. He actually had it much worse.
But there is hope. We will celebration the victory of Jesus on Sunday. However, humanity's true "Easter" will not come during life on earth. It will happen when we are united with God for eternity, and when we are reunited with our loved ones.
While there is not wholeness on earth, there is hope. I'll take it. Today's lectionary demonstrated both despair and hope. Before Weston died, the same couple of Scripture verses came into my life over and over, and they were part of today's reading:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23.
I am holding onto hope on this day of dual anniversaries.
A blogger I follow wrote beautiful words today from the perspective of Mary, the mother of Jesus: another mother who watched her son die. I love her description of wholeness. Through the death of her son, all parts of us became sacred, even the all-encompassing, gut-wrenching, involuntary heaving sobs of a mother saying goodbye to her son:
…You let your side be ripped open that our lives need never be split into sacred and secular.
How you were slashed that our lives could be seamless - all holy.
That the veil in the temple rents in two because of you, and there is no longer a divide between the common and the hallowed, and the whole earth is full of your glory and You are the continuous, unending, divine thread that weaves through all of the world, holding all together…even when you, Son, are rent apart.
-Ann Voskamp
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