Perhaps it’s hope. Perhaps it’s joy. Perhaps it’s the promise of three days fulfilled.
But whatever it may be, death and its sting is once again fresh. The images I have of it are newly planted, newly fashioned and newly felt. Shades of years before when I mourned a tiny life but rejoiced at the keeping of my own.
I see his precious face, his weathered hands, his smoothed and peppered hair. I hear his deep and hearty belly laugh, the way he’d say “This is Dad.” on my voicemail and the quiet whisper of years gone by when at bedtime, he’d press his forehead to mine and say, “One squeeze, two squeeze…all the squeezes…” I feel the punch of the graveside in every mention of His suffering, in every picture of the Cross, in every mentioned lash and wound.
Even in the in-between, love wins.
It wins in the gutting stretch of hours filled with denial and tears and faith shaken. It wins at the foot of the Cross when the rain beats down and a mother walks away shattered. It wins in the doubt, in the fear and even in the piercing of the rooster’s crow.
Love. Still. Wins.
So even as I wander, passing in and out and up and down the corridors of my in-between, waiting for the moment where I can press my forehead to his, persevering towards eternity, where I will trace His scars as I hold His hand…I will hold onto His love and rest in a promise fulfilled.
In the three days. In the stone rolled away. In the life that conquered death.
In it all, I will rest.