Inside The Unknown: A Holy Week Reflection

I awoke before dawn to the sound of thunder. A storm is coming. A storm is coming.

I rose this morning to the sound of birds. The storm has passed. The storm has passed.

The sky is grey. The patio even darker grey; wet and reflecting. The rain gutters are dripping. The highway murmur of morning commute seems muffled and more distant than usual.

Quietness.

There is a hush brought on by a steady, light rain mixed with morning movement, and it’s speaking peace to my heart. Peace amidst the storm. Safety inside the unknown that stretches long and difficult before me this day.

I am tired, and the day is long. Yet the rain is a holy music that blesses more than just the thirst of the soil. It blesses the thirst of my soul, too. If I put it to words, it would sound something like, “God so loved the world. God so loved the world. God so loves the world.” I feel the nourishment, and gratitude is beginning to break through. I needed this.

Holy week entered my heart announcing the strife. I felt heavy, like someone who must go to battle and was too afraid to say she was afraid, but knew she must enter all the same, feeling alone on the inside. I am in the midst of a faith-shift. I am a believer, but I am not who I once was, and the memories of Holy Week past brought that into the spotlight. The memories made me afraid; I felt like the outcast of all that used to be. Am I an outsider now?

But then, I read his words, the words of Jesus, who said "Come to me, all who are weary..." and I found a friend of the heart. A friend who reaches out to the edges, to the people on the outside, to the ones who would rather pray on a mountain than inside a temple and could surely find him there, too.

I’ve heard the story: he isn’t bound by walls. That day he returned and they couldn’t believe: he helped them with their unbelief. He isn’t bound by walls.

I’ve lived the story: Even if I am afraid and locked up tight inside myself wondering if I will ever be near him again, he isn’t bound by walls.

If I miss the traditional celebrations because my body is weary and my heart bleeds old wounds inside the gathering places, he isn't bound by those walls, either. He isn't bound by walls.

It is still morning. The day unfolding is yet unknown in all its happenings.

It is still raining. The rain is pouring down love, now. If I put it to words, it would sound something like this: “Jesus loves. Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me, this I know.”

Jamie Bagley