On Good Friday
I paused today trying to grasp life and death in a number. I tried to remain still before the report of 100,000 lives lost from this earth.
I fidgeted through Good Friday services when I was in the youth group. We were all hungry, and I was always a little dizzy. Every year, our youth pastor encouraged us to fast on this holy day. It was a dutiful practice that now remains a gift. Those solemn services where we were supposed to focus on Jesus’ suffering were tough for this teenager trying to pay attention while nursing a growling stomach. I couldn’t stay still very well; I imagine God’s kind eyes over me as I recall those Good Friday nights long ago.
Today, I still struggle to remain still. Not long enough to conceive the enormity and the ever particularity of the death toll spread across today’s headlines. With the nurturing invitation of a poet, I am able to stay still for little while. Long enough to let my heart reach the beginning edge of darkness. For as darkness grows deep into the night, the possibility of a coming light can begin to be dreamed, to be prayed, to be waited.
This night, eternity hungers with earth’s pangs.
. . .
This day
let all stand still
in silence,
in sorrow.
Sun and moon
be still.
Earth
be still.
Still
the wind.
Let the ground
gape in stunned
lamentation.
Let it weep
as it receives
what it thinks
it will not
give up.
Let it groan
as it gathers
the One
who was thought
forever stilled.
Time
be still.
Watch
and wait.
Still.
©Jan Richardson