I wrote a poem about my son. I think most moms do this – construct sappy mom poems about their kids. It makes sense. Our children are who we are most passionate about. I remember once my husband said to me, “I’ve never been more angry with anyone than I’ve been with my own kids.” Of course, because he loves them so much. I guess that’s why Easter is so hard for me to fathom. I cannot imagine letting any of my children, people whom I love so much, suffer in the manner that Jesus suffered. Think about the relationship between God the Father and Jesus, the son; the Dad who has more love and passion than any other being, and his kid, the perfect son who never disappointed him. With Jesus, there was no backtalk, no cursing, no ignored chores, no totaled cars, drugs, or surprise grandchildren. Just this kid, making good choices and wanting to honor his Father, Mother and step-father every day. Now, my kids are not perfect, and I have a limited amount of love and passion, compared to God. But if you asked me to give any of them over to suffer and die for a bunch of people who most of the time wouldn’t appreciate it, who would struggle with whether or not to accept it or even believe they needed the sacrifice, you would be disappointed. So, trying to wrap my head around the fact that it actually happened, that Jesus would go through that for me, is difficult to do.
I watched the movie The Passion of Christ with my husband one night after we put the kids to bed. I tried to prep him before the event, saying “Reni, I will watch the movie, and I know it will affect me, but don’t be surprised if I sit through the whole thing stone-faced.” I really thought that’s how it would go. I would sit there, expressionless, and Reni would be amazed at my lack of feeling.
I started crying about a quarter of the way in and didn’t stop until after it ended. At one point, Reni even paused it and said, “Hey, are you gonna be OK? Should we stop this?”
The thing is, I have heard that story my whole life, but until it was put in front of me, I had not understood how horrific it was. And the beating, the torturous walk, the crucifixion? They were such a small part of what happened, of what Jesus went through. What I kept thinking about after the movie ended was the worst part. I was thinking about that feeling you get at the end of a bad day, when all you can think about is the selfish jerk thing that you pulled out of yourself that day and threw on some unsuspecting person. You know, when you’re lying in bed, curled into yourself, picturing the hurt and shock on the face of the person you let loose on and wishing you had handled it better. Or any of the other times, when you felt guilt and shame for something that you did, even when you knew it was wrong. If we take that feeling and multiply it by all the times we experience it, and then multiply it by all the people alive ever – past, present and future; then take that feeling and dump it on the one Guy who didn’t deserve it, to bear for probably about 6 hours. It was so excruciating, even the creator of the universe couldn’t bear to see it. Jesus cried out to him, willing to go through it all for us, but bereft at the loss of his father. Of course, the light went out of the sky! The day turned dark and the curtain was torn and God was separated from his son, at the worst time of his life, but now united with us.
And we can weep, not with shame, but with gratitude, that our Father is that passionate about us. He loves us so much “that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
Happy Easter!
Mirror
I see myself
In the curve of your face,
Determined and particular
And loved by grace.
Your passionate heart,
Emotions in hand;
To you I am wrong,
But I understand.
When you soar,
When you fall
In your face I see it all.
I know you.
And I love you.
First born, oldest son.
Strong-willed, angry, sensitive one.
You are my joy,
You are a mirror.