The first time I remember being brought to tears for pain that was not my own, was on Good Friday. I couldn't have been older than seven. I have this memory of going into St. Dominic Church with my mom and sister, kneeling down between the two of them, and gazing at the covered crucifix. It had red fabric over it, a representation of Jesus' body having been removed from the cross and placed in a tomb. I remember thinking that it looked sort of like a giant red kite.
Once that random thought cleared out of my head, my eyes stung because, for the first time, it gripped me that Jesus suffered and died, and for reasons I contemplated but couldn't understand, He had to suffer and die. In my young mind, it had to do with opening the gates of heaven -- the explanation my mom had given me. It wasn't until years later that I understood that it was so much more personal than that, that He was opening the gates of heaven to me because I never could've entered any other way. May I never forget...
1 comment:
It would be good if the bloodiness, bruises and scars would penetrate through into all of our hearts - on a daily basis - that we might KNOW that it was personal - for each of us.
Susan
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