On Friday night, under a cloudy sky, I limped on my husband’s arm the half block to our church’s Tenebrae Service. The service is focused on the last hours of Christ’s life; music, scripture and lighting are interwoven to allow reflection on this, the day Christ died. You leave the worship hall in complete darkness and silence — the foyer lights are almost blinding in comparison and the usual chatty, friendly conversation is stifled and voices hushed.

Outside the gray clouds opened up and we tripped along home where I spent ten minutes sobbing out the emotional pain of the death of my man-God and the physical pain of my swollen, disjointed feet. These feelings had been brewing all day and their release was the key to an enjoyable evening. Though I’d love to claim that my sorrow was greater for the burdens Christ bore on the cross, I know the truth is that I felt more sorry for myself. And there’s the reality I live in daily… I need the cross desperately.

But the cross by itself is just an instrument of torturous death employed by the Romans. It means nothing without the resurrection of Jesus…

Today that beautiful, life-giving, joyous resurrection was celebrated. All morning long the resurrection greeting echoed through my ears: He is risen! He is risen indeed! We have a Savior who, by his own death and resurrection, has defeated the last enemy, Death, and provides a way for the rest of us to spend eternity with him. If you’ve got everything then you don’t need this Savior, but I can testify that I long for days of dancing on golden streets with a new healthy body, free from my immune system that for some unknown reason is methodically attacking itself. Heaven beckons to me, reminds me that though my Grandma is in ashes in a grave, she will again be whole and reunited with me one day. Then the pains and sufferings of this world will be gone and there will only be absolute and complete joy in the presence of our Almighty God.

Because of Good Friday, because of the resurrection, I can anticipate tomorrow.

Ouch. Pass the hard liquor, a sharp kitchen knife and a huge amount of gratitude for living in an area of the world where good healthcare is readily available.

Ha! at my coworker singing silly songs with corresponding sign language this afternoon. Double ha! when I joined with with her, with both singing AND signing, on the last tune. (And triple ha! at the look and tears in Karen’s eyes at the absurdity of the Zion Church office workers.)

Ah. All afternoon on my front porch in the lovely weather. Conversations with friends. Reinstallation of the wind chimes. Baseball players, children in the park, the ice cream truck. Nice.

This photo was taken at Fallfest, Zion Church’s annual gathering of fun and fellowship. Fallfest is a tradition that shouldn’t be messed with… Bonfire, complete with stories and singing, hot cider, hayrack rides, yummy food. I took lots of pictures at this event, but someone else managed to snag one of me and one of my favorite three year olds, Nathan. You can see Jeremy in the background with the other favorite three year old, Andrew. There is just something about these kids that persuades us to always be grabbing, kissing, blowing zerberts, hugging, wrestling, chasing them. They’re incredibly squeezeable! Surrounded by hordes of family, friends and brightly wrapped presents, the boys turned three on Saturday. Happy Birthday!