Whether its been two months or two days since I last saw my little sister, we basically have the same greeting for either situation. It goes like this: one of us walks through the door, we both squeal (no matter where we are), and my baby sister leaps in my arms like a little kid (as in I'm holding her- all 19 years of her) and we hug it out. Doesn't matter when, where, who- this is how our hello goes.

Its funny because when I saw her Sunday and I noticed that before I even reached her, she was jumping off the group so that I could catch her. And it struck me, that this is how it is in my family. Allison doesn't fear jumping, because she knows I will be there to catch her. None of us are afraid to leap, because we know that the others will be there to keep them from hitting the ground.

And its the exact same way with our older sister. Although I tend not to leap into her arms (I prefer my feet firmly planted on the ground), I know that if I am falling- she will be there to catch me, or at least pick me back up.

We have absolute trust in each other. We know no fear when it comes to each other. We know that no matter what we say, it will be understood (or at the very least accepted and acknowledged). We might not always agree, but we will at least be heard. That it doesn't matter what we are feeling, we can share that with each other. We fight the most with each other and are harder on each other, because we know nothing can make us walk away from each other. Its the weirdest, most insane kind of trust. Its absolute. I don't quetsion it. Ever.

We can leap, because we trust the others will be there to catch. We can cry, because we know that the others will be w/kleenex. We can fight, because we know there will be forgiveness. We can make mistakes, because we know we will be loved anyway. And even after we have hurt each other, we forgive because we love each other too much not to. And when we face the world, we know we don't do it on our own.

I have absolute faith that when I jump or fall, my sisters will be there to catch me. And they are mere humans. Mortals prone to error and mistakes. Yet, they have my full confidence.

I wonder why I trust my sisters without fail, yet question a God who has never failed me yet.

I still have alot to learn about faith.

I'm a fixer by nature. I like to take action. I see a problem, and I immediately start figuring out how to help fix the situation. Its instinctive for me. I'm often not conscious of the fact that I'm doing it, its just something I do.

I don't know if its my personality, the way I was raised, or what- but if there is something broken, I want to fix it. If there is something hurt, I need to help heal it. If there is a rift, I will figure out a way to fix it. Even if the problem doesn't affect my life directly.

Sometimes, people appreciate this aspect of me. And allow me to help, and fix, and offer what I can.
However sometimes, people don't want to be helped. People don't like the "fixer" side of me. People want me to leave it alone.

And I'm not good at that. I'm not good at looking at a broken situation and leaving it broken. I'm no good at facing a hurting heart and not reaching out to offer comfort. So I don't do well when I'm not given the choice to help. I don't know how to handle when my only option is to sit back and watch from afar. When the only help I can offer is prayer from a distance.

But maybe that's a lesson I need to learn. That I can't and won't be able to help/fix/heal everything and not everyone is going to be open to letting me help. And I have to find a way to be able to live at peace with that. Find peace that I can't help save everyone and every situation. Find peace in the fact that I'm not the savior of anything at all. The fixer of anything at all. The healer of anything at all.

I have to find a way to face at the end of the day, I'm not capable of anything. That I am utterly dependent upon Someone to help me.

And its only because of that, that I can offer help (humble as it is) to anyone else.

Good Friday?

I’ve always thought calling it “Good” Friday seemed a little weird. Actually, I’ve found it downright obnoxious. It feels like calling that particular day good is rubbing salt in an open wound.

What was good about that Friday? I’m guessing if we polled all the people there, they would agree that nothing seemed “good”. Maybe exciting, maybe thrilling, but certainly not good. Probably sad, quite possibly disturbing- but good? I sincerely doubt it. Even to the Romans, or the officials, or the crowd who cried out for the crucifixion, I doubt when they got home that night they sat down and thought to themselves: “Now that was a good day.”

Because even if they got what they wanted, I’m guessing there was a nagging sensation in their minds that what just happened was not quite right. That what took place was wrong. That even though they asked for it, when they got it, it didn’t make quite as much sense.

The day certainly wasn’t good for Jesus. Tortured and crucified.

The day couldn’t have been good for his friends- watching the man they spent their life serving slowly die a public humiliating death.

The day probably shattered Mary’s heart- watching her much loved, first-born cease to breathe.

And the people who just happened to be around? Who really had no strong opinion in the matter? I bet they could feel the evil in the air. The hopelessness of that day as it covered the ground like fog. I bet they would agree that something was terribly wrong about that day.

I can’t even imagine what God felt. Watching the Son He sent undergo the most painful physical and emotional suffering that anyone has ever felt before. Knowing that He could stop it in an instant, but refusing out of His love for the rest of His children to do so. To know you could save your child, but to choose not to? How can that be good? Necessary, gracious, loving maybe, but certainly not good.

We have a tendency to gloss over the misery of the day. To try and temper the absolute grief and awfulness of what transpired. I think we are largely uncomfortable sitting there and simply facing the tragic awful truth about the events the transpired that day. We don’t know how to sit and simply let the reality of those events penetrate our minds. We are afraid to call it like it is. We don’t want to admit that it actually was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. We like to skip over the events of Friday and focus on Sunday. We don’t even begin to deal with Saturday. Its just too hard to deal with the two most hopeless days in history.

I think it is necessary to learn how to do that though. I think it would be good for all of us to reach the place where we can face an awful situation and just admit that that is what it is. To find the place where we stop trying to gloss it over, we stop trying to make it better than it actually it, to find the place where we can just proclaim it for what it is: bad. To figure out what it means to simply be present with the pain and horror, instead of making feeble attempts to make it better.

Only after the events of Sunday, can the events of Friday even begin to be considered good. Only after the scene at the tomb, can the scene at the cross give whispers of hope instead of screams of despair. Only after about two thousand years, would we dare to call that day “Good Friday”.

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