Today’s reflection is from parishioner Doreen Salse.
Less than one week until Good Friday. I feel as though I am sitting with a friend on death row. It’s odd that in all the Lents I have gone through – or at least those I paid attention to – that this thought hasn’t struck me before.
I think of sitting with my nose pressed against the plastic in the visitation area, if that’s how it works, trying to read every inch on the surface that dear face with all my might. Trying to capture it, etch it into my mind so that I would never in my life forget it. I would want to conjure it up at night, taking the image with me into my dreams, lock it in a place where I could keep it safe and protect it always.
When my godmother died, I wanted a memory of her that would never fade, and I asked her if she would give me her blessing. She looked at me with the most profound tenderness, and I realized she was sad for me. Not for herself, because she knew she was going, but for me because I was staying, and it would be hard for me to stay here without her.
Would you look the same way at me, Jesus? A wistful smile at my attempts to be brave in the face of losing you? Would that smile hold just a little bit of pity because even after all these years of hearing what you had to say, you know that hearing you is not the same as listening to you? Am I one of your disciples that you shook your head sadly at? If I had listened closely, I would have known that beyond the suffering, the dusty road, and the jeering just a week away, there would be a moment when the sky would open and the earth would shake with the terrible fury of the Truth. That truly, this man was the Son of God. What part of that do I not understand in my spiritual adolescence?
As I end this Lenten journey, let me look beyond what I fear are your and my final hours. Let me see only the start of your spectacular promise that you will rise again and those of us who believe in you, too, will never die.