Good Friday

The day we buried Lydia, our bishop’s wife and my dear friend, Erilynne, gave me this. It’s called a holding cross. The angles are skewed and the edges rounded so that it is easy to grip. She held onto it as she struggled through health issues that doctor’s weren’t sure she would overcome. In the moments before we got in the cars to go to the cemetery, she gave it to me.

I don’t remember in detail much about that day. Always I will remember the way it felt as my fingers curled around that cross and gripped it so tightly I had difficulty straightening my fingers when it was time to let it go. It brought Him close on a day He felt far away. It reminded me that I would be with Him one day and this empty, broken part of me would one day be filled and healed.

Today, for the first time since Lydia’s service, I went into the church where we gathered together. I went for a couple of the Good Friday services held there, the cross tucked safely in a pocket in my purse, where it has lived since that first day I held it. I listened as minister’s spoke of Christ and His sacrifice, as they focused today on what the cross means for us.

It’s a holding cross. We hold onto it for dear life on the days we don’t think we can make it through. It brings Him close on days when He feels far away. It reminds us that He has made it possible for us to be with Him, and that one day, He will fill the empty and heal the broken.

Should all else be taken from me, should I be wounded beyond repair, shaken to my core, hopeless beyond words, the Cross stands and I will cling to it. It is unshaken, eternal. It stands to remind me of a love that surpasses my comprehension, that will sustain me though I lose everything and that will one day restore me and make all things new.

I am holding on. On this Good Friday, I pray that you are too.