It’s Good Friday. I’m sitting trying to find the meaning of this day again. I miss sharing it with others, I miss not having a fixed faith community at the moment. I miss Good Friday’s past, trailing from my teenage years of sitting in the shelter of Guildford Cathedral and soaking up the silent awful majesty of this day.
And so today I pause.
I breathe in the long history past, a cross, a man rejected, killed, friends who fell asleep and denied they knew him, a man alone in a garden wondering if there was another road to take, a mystery of curtain torn, darkness falling in the daytime, the divine ripped apart, the forsaken lostness, the cup drunk, the shifting change, the newness about to be forged, but first the fire, the stopping sadness, the silence, the end.
Always the end.
Before there can be a beginning
Always there is an end.
I sit and breathe in this story all our stories are found in.
Each year I need something different from this Easter wonder, this mystery, this clarity of view, this story to end and begin all stories. This year I need to know that all stories must have an ending before there is a new beginning. I feel the ache of our ending. I lean into the grief and the loss. I lean into the loneliness and know that somewhere there will be hope again, a new start, a path ahead. I wrap this silence around me and wonder. I sit waiting. I look at the most desperate of all places in this story and know that the end gave way to more than anyone could have dreamed.
I hold all our endings and longings for new beginnings and I wait. No easy timeline for any of us but never the final despair. I hold onto hope finding a way.