When I was a kid, Easter meant new shoes and ruffled anklets, straw bonnets and new undies to match my new pastel dress - complete with white cotton gloves and tiny New Testament. Good little girls also carried "change purses" on Sundays. Easter morning's surprise basket brimming with all things "chocolaty" and bunny-like rivaled Christmas at our house.
Today, I think back on those days and smile. Oh yes, I can still smell the new shoes and feel the hardness of the heels on mine. I adored having my picture taken and the way I felt when properly dressed for the Easter service at our Methodist church. I cherish those memories and admit I applied those mandates to my three daughters when they were young.
Now, wiser and a true follower of Christ, I am continually awestruck with Easter. Holy Week means more to me than I could explain in our limited language.
So, yearly I focus on one aspect of the Ascension of Christ to make it more personal and a richer part of my life.
This year I humbly (with a grateful heart) attempt to place myself in the grandest Christian tragedy, the drama misnamed, Good Friday. It's there on that earthly stage I ask God to anoint my imagination-- to enter my mind, my emotions, my understanding, and my story telling.
I yearn to observe and honor the Lord's mother, Mary, and link my mother/heart to hers in a deeper way.
Here is that story:
I fall beneath the cross,
I stand in awe as I observe her deep sadness - her rounded shoulders, her bowed head, her slowed steps.
Silence, a Holy Silence, falls across the hearts and minds of those present; mine as well.
In that quiet hour two Bodies of Light and Form appear and sit down next to Mary on the ground. It appears that is larger than the other, but when I see them stand, I see they are identical Beings. Twins I believe. I recognize them for they were the same Beings that visited me when I was widowed years ago. Their loving Presence is like no other
Mercy, with Grace remain and gather around Mary on the grassy mound nearby. Mercy wraps her arm across Mary's shoulder, Grace holds Her Hands. "Compassion and Trust will visit you soon," they tell Mary. "They are on assignment with the High Eleven just now." Mary looks deeply into their eyes and for the first time in many days, a faint smile appears.
They bring with them the vials of the Comforting Oil of Presence sent to earth by God The Father. They open the slim bottle and pour out just a drop of the oil and place it in the shape of a cross across Mary's forehead. Within minutes, she leans on Grace's shoulder and falls asleep. Others gather the leftover grave cloths and cover Mary to ward off the cool night air.
I stand and look about me; my clothes crumpled and filthy, my sandals barely covering my muddy-crusted feet. My hair hangs in damp strings. My voice is hoarse and hot, grinding with anger. My arms are heavy and limp. I want to shout and lift my fists to the murderers of my Lord, but can't. From the depths of my being a certain silent voice spoke, "This must be - the Cross must be." I climb higher, up to another flat boulder and lift my face toward heaven.
Below me Mary sleeps while others stand in disbelief.
I ache for her; I pray for her, I honor her.
I looked back toward the half moon of a mountain where Christ's Cross had pierced the narrow landscape.
I gasp when I reviewed what had happened there just hours before.
Just then I heard a rustling of voices and saw the lovely descent of angels flowing down and around Mary and those standing nearby. Their voices in perfect harmony sang to Mary as they praised and worshiped
God. Heaven sent, they lifted their voices in a sacred language, unknown to me. Mary, at times, joined in their singing. Mercy and Grace sang as well as they walked among the choir of angels. There was no need for light as the robes and wings of the angelic beings shed a calming glow that could be seen for miles around, even into the darkest valleys.
In those moments the rocks and trees and streams and skies blended their natural voices into the joy rejoicing and it became the most beautiful song ever heard on earth. "All Is Well, All is Well, All Is Well."
Around midnight just as the stars become their brightest, I watched as the angelic beings rose into the clear night air, except for two
I've heard, and I believe it's true, that an uncommon breeze picked up the beautiful, holy song and carried it n the cool night air to that lonely hill where Jesus took his last breath on earth. A shepherd boy who lost one of his lambs wandered up the lonely hillside the next morning and found his lamb safely asleep in a broad field of wide-petaled lilies, white and gleaming, taller than the shepherd, brighter than the sun.
Carrying the lamb across his shoulders on his way to his flock, the shepherd boy remembered a story his father him about how he wandered upon a
Today, I think back on those days and smile. Oh yes, I can still smell the new shoes and feel the hardness of the heels on mine. I adored having my picture taken and the way I felt when properly dressed for the Easter service at our Methodist church. I cherish those memories and admit I applied those mandates to my three daughters when they were young.
Now, wiser and a true follower of Christ, I am continually awestruck with Easter. Holy Week means more to me than I could explain in our limited language.
So, yearly I focus on one aspect of the Ascension of Christ to make it more personal and a richer part of my life.
This year I humbly (with a grateful heart) attempt to place myself in the grandest Christian tragedy, the drama misnamed, Good Friday. It's there on that earthly stage I ask God to anoint my imagination-- to enter my mind, my emotions, my understanding, and my story telling.
I yearn to observe and honor the Lord's mother, Mary, and link my mother/heart to hers in a deeper way.
Here is that story:
I fall beneath the cross,
And linger there on that lonely hill.
The smell of dust hangs in the thick air.
Fingers and faces scrape hard into the earth.
I taste the dust as my mouth moves closer to the soil.
Fully prostrate, I lay my forehead onto my wrist.
Then, lift my eyes just in time to . . .
See my Christ's lips move for the last time. Then He sighs as his barren ribs rise and fall.
Fingers and faces scrape hard into the earth.
I taste the dust as my mouth moves closer to the soil.
Fully prostrate, I lay my forehead onto my wrist.
Then, lift my eyes just in time to . . .
See my Christ's lips move for the last time. Then He sighs as his barren ribs rise and fall.
Sounds come out of me - my grief engulfs me.
"My Lord, My Lord."
Others weep, some wail as the blast of heaven thunders across their broken hearts.
The stained cross is downed by those who lifted it on that lonely hill.
The cross, no longer needed.
"My Lord, My Lord."
Others weep, some wail as the blast of heaven thunders across their broken hearts.
The stained cross is downed by those who lifted it on that lonely hill.
The cross, no longer needed.
The ground trembles as my Christ is lowered into the uplifted arms of His mother, Mary. Others struggle to release Him from the nails, the ropes, the humiliation.
Mary caresses her Man-Child's broken body. She holds his head - bruised and caked with blood. His skin hangs in strings of flesh, allowing vessels to lay open, empty.
All is exposed. She searches for the last shreds His scant clothing to cover Him. She kisses His swollen eyes and whispers, "My Son, My Savior, My God."
She wipes His wounds with the sleeve of her robeand holds His dangling Hand as she walks with others as they carry Him to a grave spot nearby.
The cave is dank and dark; the bedrock, cold and hard.
Mary wraps Him once more in swaddling clothes and lays Him on the narrow slab. Her tears fall across His Body creating tiny creases in the linen. His once warm and strong body lay limp, lifeless. Just before she wraps His Holy Face with the delicate grave cloths. she places her lips on His. "Goodbye, my Son, my Holy Son.
She watches and waits with gasping groans - -
Sorrow unspeakable, she leans toward the cave, arms outstretched - as if to say, "please come back,"
As the immense boulder rolls across the opening to her Son's grave.
I stand in awe as I observe her deep sadness - her rounded shoulders, her bowed head, her slowed steps.
Silence, a Holy Silence, falls across the hearts and minds of those present; mine as well.
In that quiet hour two Bodies of Light and Form appear and sit down next to Mary on the ground. It appears that is larger than the other, but when I see them stand, I see they are identical Beings. Twins I believe. I recognize them for they were the same Beings that visited me when I was widowed years ago. Their loving Presence is like no other
Mercy, with Grace remain and gather around Mary on the grassy mound nearby. Mercy wraps her arm across Mary's shoulder, Grace holds Her Hands. "Compassion and Trust will visit you soon," they tell Mary. "They are on assignment with the High Eleven just now." Mary looks deeply into their eyes and for the first time in many days, a faint smile appears.
They bring with them the vials of the Comforting Oil of Presence sent to earth by God The Father. They open the slim bottle and pour out just a drop of the oil and place it in the shape of a cross across Mary's forehead. Within minutes, she leans on Grace's shoulder and falls asleep. Others gather the leftover grave cloths and cover Mary to ward off the cool night air.
I stand and look about me; my clothes crumpled and filthy, my sandals barely covering my muddy-crusted feet. My hair hangs in damp strings. My voice is hoarse and hot, grinding with anger. My arms are heavy and limp. I want to shout and lift my fists to the murderers of my Lord, but can't. From the depths of my being a certain silent voice spoke, "This must be - the Cross must be." I climb higher, up to another flat boulder and lift my face toward heaven.
Below me Mary sleeps while others stand in disbelief.
I ache for her; I pray for her, I honor her.
I looked back toward the half moon of a mountain where Christ's Cross had pierced the narrow landscape.
I gasp when I reviewed what had happened there just hours before.
Just then I heard a rustling of voices and saw the lovely descent of angels flowing down and around Mary and those standing nearby. Their voices in perfect harmony sang to Mary as they praised and worshiped
God. Heaven sent, they lifted their voices in a sacred language, unknown to me. Mary, at times, joined in their singing. Mercy and Grace sang as well as they walked among the choir of angels. There was no need for light as the robes and wings of the angelic beings shed a calming glow that could be seen for miles around, even into the darkest valleys.
In those moments the rocks and trees and streams and skies blended their natural voices into the joy rejoicing and it became the most beautiful song ever heard on earth. "All Is Well, All is Well, All Is Well."
Around midnight just as the stars become their brightest, I watched as the angelic beings rose into the clear night air, except for two
I've heard, and I believe it's true, that an uncommon breeze picked up the beautiful, holy song and carried it n the cool night air to that lonely hill where Jesus took his last breath on earth. A shepherd boy who lost one of his lambs wandered up the lonely hillside the next morning and found his lamb safely asleep in a broad field of wide-petaled lilies, white and gleaming, taller than the shepherd, brighter than the sun.
Carrying the lamb across his shoulders on his way to his flock, the shepherd boy remembered a story his father him about how he wandered upon a
