on good friday

This is Holy Week. Tomorrow is Maundy Thursday, which in church tradition commemorates the Last Supper. Tomorrow is the remembrance of the first few Words of Institution: On the night he was betrayed... What must it have felt like to be betrayed by one of your closest friends? Can't say I've experienced too much betrayal in my day. What a sting, though. What a foretaste of the pain to come.

Good Friday is the day we focus on Jesus' suffering and sacrifice. Friday is the day that I best understand the phrase "darkest before the dawn." On Friday, there is no hope, only sadness. This Friday, I have the privilege of assisting with the Good Friday service at our church, the Table at CPC. I'll be reciting a couple monologues I helped write. But I have to be honest: it's not going to be a fun time.

Because on Good Friday, we also take a hard, pointed look at ourselves. Because 2,000 years ago, a group of Jesus' followers demanded his death, mere days after celebrating his arrival in Jerusalem. And the point is that if Jesus had been born in 1978, we would also be calling for his crucifixion the day after tomorrow.

So the monologues in the Good Friday service are read to afflict the comfortable. To disturb the secure. We're going to raise eyebrows and prickle skin and upset stomachs. We may even anger you. Because we're going to put audible words to the feelings some of us have hidden away in the darkened corners of our hearts. We're going to call Jesus the same names they called him 2,000 years ago, through the words and attitudes we use today.

And it's not to shock or surprise. It's not to elicit a reaction for theatricality's sake. It's not even to give you hope, because on Good Friday, hope is in short supply -- hope comes Sunday morning.

We're going to say out loud what most of us would never breathe, let alone allow ourselves to form concrete thoughts around. And in the ugliest of ways, we're going to hold up a mirror so we can see ourselves clearly. In doing so, I think we'll also show how that same ugliness that called for Christ's death 2,000 years ago is still hanging around in us today.

If you are looking for a place to worship and remember the sacrificial Lamb this weekend, please join me at The Table at CPC: 6901 Normandale Road, Edina.
Good Friday service: 8pm
Easter Sunday service: 6pm

speaking of faithfulness

Most of you know this already, but my mom is a pretty big deal. Officially, she's known as Organized Audrey and runs a professional speaking and organizing business, specializing in corporate training. Yep, a pretty big deal.

Last night I had the privilege of speaking side-by-side with my mom.

We were asked to speak at a women-only service at our church. As we began crafting our informal presentation, the theme started leaking out everywhere: God's faithfulness & answered prayer.

As Mom and I think about the last 18 months of our lives, God's faithfulness to us and His faithfulness in answering prayer is the only way we can summarize that time.

So last night we shared. Together. In a tag-team kind of way. We laughed, shared pictures, made jokes. We told stories of faithfulness upon faithfulness, of answered prayer after answered prayer.

Some of the women present were people who had prayed, advised, cried, laughed, and lived alongside us both during the past school year. Some of the women there had never met us before. There were a lot of tears. (Not me. Mom, though.) One of my childhood friends came from an hour away and brought her mom and grandmother! The nurse from my high school was there, too! (Not only did I remember her by name, but I admitted to faking illness on numerous occasions. Once a drama queen...)

What an incredible time to celebrate all the ways God has come through for us, to thank our friends and support systems, to remind myself of how the past year wasn't about me--it was about God proving Himself faithful in every situation.

I've been dwelling on a particular piece of feedback Mom received. A woman said to her afterward, "I had no idea that was going on last year." Her comment really gave me pause. As women especially, how can we support one another--as a functioning body of Christ--if we don't know what's going on with one another? And how can we know if we don't ask or tell?

If you are going through trials of various kinds, take heart. There is power in the telling. There is support to receive. There is faithfulness to be seen later on. Mom & I know; we've lived it.

faithful. again. still.

Oh, Lord...you got me again!

Guess who just met a couple from Lagos, Nigeria? FOR REAL.

I took a chance and introduced myself, spoke "small-small" pidgin English with them, and told them how much I miss Abuja.

The wife introduced herself as Shola, and I asked if that was short for Adeshola. Her eyes got big as she asked, "How did you know that?!" I just laughed and told her what a strong Yoruba name she has. We exchanged information and are going to get together soon.

Thank you, God, for bringing this family into my life at the precise moment I needed them most! Even though I am missing Nigeria again & still today, You are faithful again & still today.

(Why this is perfect timing? Read below for a taste of profound homesickness.)

honesty

As optimistic and hopeful as my last post was, life isn't all sunshine and rainbows.

Life is also the gritty messy bits, too.

Life is the gritty messy bits.

Today has been an extraordinarily difficult day.

I can't pinpoint exactly how or when it crept in, but I have been absolutely flattened by homesickness for Nigeria this evening. I'm a mess right now. Lots of tears. It's not the missing phenomenon, either. "I miss..." would be an impossible fill-in-the-blank at this moment.

It's so hard to put words to this! I don't have the vocabulary for the emptiness I feel. I'm angry and I don't know why, and I don't think it's fair to be angry, and I don't know where to direct my anger: myself? I chose this. I chose to leave.

It's just this; as in, this is all there is:

I don't feel comfortable in my own skin right now, and I just want to go home.