The "Good" In Good Friday

Friday is ending. 

Please hold on to it just a little longer. Don't be so eager to get to Sunday that you miss the agony of Friday. Friday was nothing like the ways we normally think of Easter - color and light and music. It was blood and gore and sin and heartbreak on steroids. There is nothing at all good about Good Friday. 

"Michelle, what in the world are you talking about about? Of course Friday is good! Jesus died for our sins! Isn't that a good thing?"

Of course it is. I am eternally grateful for that. It is, in every sense, the good news of the gospel - He paid my price so I don't have to. Hallelujah! 

But the way He did it was not good. The day He did it was not good. The fact that He had to do it because we humans decided it was a good idea to get caught up in the universe's conflict, definitely not good. As for what we go through in this life, not just as a result of what we've done, but for what those around us have done...no, it's not good. 

Sometimes what we go through in this life isn't our fault or doing. Sometimes it's what's been done to us. If it is our fault, we have our guilt and shame to wrestle with. If it isn't, forgiveness is hard to give. Wounds, whether inflicted by self or someone else, hurt. And yes, sometimes, you don't know when, or if, Sunday is coming. 

But Sunday came. Jesus rose. His victory is my victory. Your victory. Good Friday is only Good Friday because of Sunday. 

But for now, perhaps you are in a Friday season, and there is nothing good about it. It wasn't just a Friday season for the Son of God, but for all who loved Him. The crowds who had listened to Him. The people He had healed. The children He had blessed. The disciples who had lived with Him, including the one who stood under the cross, watching in agony as his best friend slowly and painfully died. The woman who gave birth to Him, who had been promised amazing things about Him, going through unspeakable horror and confusion. They didn't know that Sunday was coming. They didn't know that His suffering would bring their healing. 

I hope and pray you know what they didn't. I hope that this Good Friday, you don't rush away from it because you're afraid of the pain. I hope you pause in the middle of the suffering, and remember that He bled, not just for your sin, but for your pain. For your heartache. For all the terrible things in life you don't understand. 

I hope you know that Sunday is coming. But for now, let His life bleed into the middle of your wounds, and find your healing. Your redemption. Someone different from who you've been, because it's not possible to approach the cross and walk away unchanged. I pray you find the "good" in your Good Friday...but if not, that's ok. No one two thousand years ago got it either. Nevertheless, I hope He breaks through. I hope that like Jesus on Holy Saturday, you find a season of rest between the agony and the victory. 

No, Good Friday wasn't good. Not for Jesus. But it's because His wasn't, that ours can be. That, by itself, is something worth rejoicing about. 

Touching Heaven ~ A Tribute to Mary Jane Twombly

It seems at this very moment, I can hear her singing in the kitchen as she washed dishes. I see her busy at her kitchen island, making burgers or helping with a birthday cake. I smell the food she made, remember the taste of her fried veggie meats, and try to brush off the memory of her living room furniture that I always secretly hated because I found the fabric scratchy and unaesthetic. 

I remember endless memories of her reading to me, only to transition into memories of me reading to her as I got older. I remember warm hugs and gum and discussions about books, and the Sabbath afternoons after church where we would drive four hours to her house to spend the rest of the weekend, and how excited I always was to go. Few but still vivid memories of my grandfather linger in my mind too, though he passed when I was 6, and my memories of my grandmother are much more. I still faintly remember what his voice sounded like, but her voice is clear in my ears. 

I remember her enjoying music and 3abn. I remember her talking heaven as a home. I remember the "bless this kitchen" decor piece in her dining room and the Bible verse tablets on her end tables. 

I picture her in my mind, spending hours reading or listening to the latest news from my parents. I remember getting annoyed with my mom because she would spend most of a visit putting new books on Grandma's iPad when it got beyond her skill when I would have preferred to be talking and visiting. I remember spontaneous orders of Domino's pizza, enjoying McDonald's ice cream sundaes or the brown cow ice cream bars she almost always had in her freezer, and of occasional visits to a seafood restaurant we all enjoyed. My parents and sister visited that restaurant while Grandma was dying in her honor. 

I remember visiting her for the first time after the pandemic. As far as I remember, this is the last time I would see her. I was busy with school and other obligations, but when I was home and my mom called her, I made sure to let her know I loved her. 

I remember when we got the call that she was in ICU, that she wasn't going to make it. Pain such as I've never experienced before flooded me. It would be several nights before I could sleep well again. I spent that awful weekend comforted by my boyfriend, who kept me from feeling alone while grieving. He was there with me just days later when I got the text from my mom saying that my grandmother had died. He has been there with me every step of this painful journey. I wish my grandma could have met him. Out of all the men I've dated, I suspect she would have liked him best. I think she would have been proud to know I fell in love with a theology student. I remember my sister, who was with our grandmother when she breathed her last, saying that she had been given a gift by being the only one in the room with her when she slipped away. I remember my mom, seeing her for one last time following her death, saying she looked very peaceful. Of course she did. She was a peaceful person. 

My grandmother's life shaped my life. I would not be the person I am today without her. She was old fashioned, as most people her age are, and we didn't always see eye to eye. But I always knew she loved her family. She was, in a sense, the person who always seemed to me to be touching Heaven. It's nice remembering that the journey there is the next thing she's going to know. But for now, as we prepare to lay her to rest with my grandfather and uncle, I'm comforted knowing she's at peace. Her death has brought me the realization, that after all, no matter how hard this life can be, maybe Heaven really isn't so far away. The greatest thing I will remember about my grandmother is that she knew Jesus, and for one who knows Jesus, they really are those who touch Heaven, even in this life. 

I know I'm going to see her again. Until then, I will be grateful for her impact in my life, for the lifetime of memories I made with her, and I will miss her every day until Jesus comes. 

~ Mary Jane Hope Twombly ~

Oct. 2, 1931 - Mar. 6, 2024