Saturday morning my husband was out of town, so I porch partied alone. I woke up early, around 4 a.m., made coffee, and took my flashlight and Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling outside.
The air felt different that morning. Soft and cool on my face. Almost lavender.
Like Easter morning.
Maybe the air felt this way when Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane before He went to the cross.
Almost thought about the cross, but I wasn’t ready.
Instead I pondered gentle things.
The dogwoods had just bloomed.
I could barely see the branches in the darkness, but I remembered their splendor.
The Easter tree my mother-in-law made.
She gave it to us when the children were little.
I let my mind dwell on bright green Easter grass. Filling baskets. Egg hunts.
I thought about our oldest child’s first Easter.
While I sat rocking and thinking, I knew I’d return to the cross.
I remembered ten years ago, when I saw The Passion of the Christ.
And that one scene.
How it undid me.
It still does.
When He suffered the beating, the scourging, the whips on His back, when His hands and feet were nailed to the cross…
My heart pounded with the heaviness of the Truth.
A weight fell on me,
So intense I couldn’t breathe.
For the first time I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt
What He did for me was Enough.
Now I wonder
Could it have been…
That moment was the first time I worshipped my Jesus of the Cross?
I couldn’t help but say it over and over again.
There was nothing more You could have done.
You did it all.