For 13 years, I've avoided it.
Because once you've seen something, you can't un-see it.
But a few days ago, with Danica's urging, I went to Village Church's Good Friday Service and saw clips of The Passion of the Christ.
It's one thing to have head knowledge of the Crucifixion.
It's another thing, totally, to see one take place in front of you on a big screen with booming sound.
It kinda wrecked me.
I left the service, drove over to Crescent Beach, sat on a bench, watched the sun set, shivered in the cold, and thought about His horrific death. And what it meant. What it means. And why, if this was always part of the eternal, divine plan to save us, did it have to be such a torturous event? If dying for our sins was the only way to reconcile us with God, why couldn't it have been an easier passing? Was all the flogging, whipping, beating, ripping of skin, pounding of nails ... was all that absolutely necessary?
That was the worst.
I can't even.
At moments I was aching for Him. The pain. And at other times, I was aching for His mom, who was RIGHT THERE, watching her son, do this for us. Her pain.
And then I cried for us. For me.
He did that, for us.
Feeling so unworthy.
Some images will haunt for a long time.
And it's a good thing.
My Sunday School version of the Crucifixion was too Disney.
Easter changed for me this year.
Three things I'm thankful for:
1. The cross.