Hope lost…

I have spent a lot of time this week thinking. Which can lead down many a dark rabbit hole. I can still vividly remember the events surrounding the death of my parents. The sights, the sounds, smells, the faces of those around me still burned into my mind. Those memories will probably follow me all the days of my life.

I remember the night I was told about their accident. The crushing weight that sat on me; suffocating me, strangling the life out of me. My mind raced trying to make sense of something unfathomable. My body was weak with exhaustion. As the night wore on, my body screamed for rest but my heart and mind were inconsolable. The pain I felt was beyond words. I have tried many times to express what it felt like and each time I find my words fall short.

This week I have thought about that dreadful night often. The feeling of hopelessness just below the surface.

It matters not if I believe the current gregorian calendar is accurate or not (I seriously doubt it). But many people talk about the week of Passover this time of year and the events of that week.

I can’t help but be drawn to the story. The beginning of the week as Jesus rides into town welcomed by a crowd that is praising Him, little did they know how life would change for His twelve closest friends.

As the week nears a close, they have looked back with remembrance of the journey our ancestors made out of Egypt. How they left so suddenly the bread had no time to rise. How they fled for their very lives out into the unknown. The twelve sat in a room having a meal to remember the deliverance of our forefathers, and Jesus tried to give them a glimpse of what was to come. But they didn’t understand.

As the next few hours played out and they watched the man they gave up everything for was lead away in chains, beaten beyond all recognition, and hung on a cross like a common criminal. I’m sure they thought this wasn’t at all how things were supposed to happen.

I can only imagine how they felt as night fell after watching their Lord die. The hopelessness, pain, confusion, anger, desperation…

Oh how they must have felt. Every breath a struggle. The fear that the next knock on the door would be soldiers looking for them. Wanting to kill the followers.

Their eyes must have burned like fire from all the tears of despair. Sleep must’ve come hard if at all that long first night. As the sun rose the next morning I doubt it brought much comfort. The questions of how to move on, how to live the next moment without the one you’ve come to depend on for everything.

Grief on such a great scale, permeating an entire group of people…to find any comfort at all must have been impossible.

To lose a brother, son, cousin, friend in such a traumatic way…the pain must have been maddening.

I’ve though a lot about how those men and the women that followed and lived with Jesus everyday must have felt that first night after the brutal killing. I can only begin to imagine their pain. But my little taste of the pain enough to drive a man insane must pale to what they felt that night.

I can still feel that darkness that settles in on you in times like these. I wonder just how dark it got for them that first night…


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