A Good Friday

It had been a full week, a week filled with multi-directional influence, information vying for my attention: swaying conversations, difficult decisions, lofty appointments, and genuine hunger. Holy Week. Unfolding busyness in a foreign space, miles away from the comforts of home, and yet I found myself searching for a sense of belonging. On the eve of Good Friday, plans shifted, and I settled into the discomfort of disappointing another, and contended with information that forced an agenda to take a side. And I did, as we find ourselves doing: shrugging off and settling into silences, hounding thoughts. Eventually, sleep takes over.

Wide awake and ready to venture across the country, what would’ve been an hour where I’m from took hours. Hours in the backseat of a car through winding roads at a snail's pace. Car sick! I suffer from backseat car rides, especially when the movement of the car is anything but straight on. Focus. If I could turn my attention to anything else, it would provide the necessary distraction.

As we made our way out of the city, my affection shifted. I laid myself aside, eyes lifted, and tracking where those winding roads were leading us. Shepherds' fields, one after another, all speckled with lambs. I pressed my face up against the cold passenger window while my heart ached to press into the Lamb of God. We were moving in the direction of visiting the family home in the Old World, a tangible encounter with what had only ever existed in photographs.

As we geared up for that precious moment, I was caught up in another. And nothing else seemed to matter, I considered releasing myself from the restraints of the car to run toward the lambs. The ache to be near them continued to grow, and I knew it had to be similar to the ache within Jesus’ beloved, John. Though gruesome and unrecognizable, John had to be near the Lamb. Oh, the horror and beauty of the Cross.

Pulling myself away from the edge of that moment, wiping the tears from my face, and attempting to run a cover-up for the gentle sobs I hoped no one heard. Clearing one's throat seems a great option in such times. Unbeknownst to me, the theme would run its course throughout the entirety of that day. We pull into a quaint, simple village named Whitney—the origin of my Husband’s family. On the corner of a narrow road where the house sits, a little pub called The Lamb Inn introduced us to Farm Lane, where Hillside Cottage resides. Everything about the place pulled on my affection, wondering how it could be that a pub on a humble corner could bear such a name. After visiting Hillside Cottage, my husband, John, shared the story about his Grandparents having their first date at The Lamb Inn. Our next stop was to pull in and visit the pub. It was a place that lived up to its name in decor. Tastefully so. I could have lingered there for hours, my heart still resonating with that persistent ache to be with The Lamb of God.

We thoroughly took in the scene with pictures and small conversations; a lot of that feels more like a dreamscape today than reality. On to the next venture: Oxford. Has a city ever smelled of history more so than Oxford? I couldn’t look around quickly enough, and the vast number of people everywhere was a bit distracting, though they made the place. After a few trips, we found a place to park in order to walk into the masterful history of this place. This is no mere fanciful talk; its history possesses a tangible presence. The buildings, the ancient trees, the worn roads—everything in Oxford seemed to whisper stories of centuries past. We were all getting hungry, and an unexpected appointment awaited: a restaurant named The Crown Inn. My inner world had been illuminated by revelation throughout the day, and this felt like a deliberate, resonant finale. I was, quite simply, putty in the hands of the Father. Revelation can burst forth in vibrant color and sound, but for me, it often manifests as a quiet stillness, an internal space where I can fully partner with it all. I suppose my quiet can feel awkward to those around me, but in those moments, I must run to The Lamb when He calls.

This was my Good Friday a year ago. As I sit within that memory, a deeper revelation unfolds before me: the very stakes that ground this entire experience in profound truth. As I’ve pondered Holy Week this year and last, a deep solace surrounds me. My heart remains in a posture of seeking, my actions a constant asking, and I continue to knock upon the Cross-shaped door. A bloodied door, heavy with the burden and victory of the Godhead laying life down for friends. As the door pushes wide, the brightest light escapes, surrounding me, pulling me in. There I am amid the Throne Room. The Lamb of God slain yet eternally alive, utterly humble yet undeniably victorious. He is the only one worthy to open the scroll, the very scrolls that offer me glimpses of insight, profound revelation, and the foundational knowledge of who He is in the first place. That scroll lay open on that significant day a year ago, its purpose to draw me ever closer, to cultivate this persistent ache to draw near, ultimately crowning the entirety of this past year in an intimate, deeply personal moment. Yet, at times, the narratives woven from our pain, our trials, and our failures whisper a deceptive lie, leading us to believe that Christ is somehow absent from our tears. But I believe those very tears speak a far more truthful word of our suffering, valiant Savior, a testament to His profound empathy and unwavering presence.