There have been a series of losses that coincidentally plunked down in the weeks before Good Friday. One year I had a miscarriage. That was a bloody day. No one but our daughter was with me as I felt my unborn baby die. This body was as empty as a tomb. Another year our son smashed his car, and with it his independence. I wept in the pounding rain at the crumpled mess that a tow truck hauled away.

 

There was a year when our family was rent asunder by anger, and the compassion that grew in its place was like the first crocuses that dare to break through the snow. Another year the school our daughter was attending collapsed in a dark hole of betrayal. This year brings its own version of loss, as I grieve a silent ending.

 

We named our middle child Hosanna Raphiah* at a time in our life when being saved seemed like a good option. Before our children were born, before the engine that is John and Lori had much steam, I saw no need for rescue. We were doing peachy. But after a few not so Good Fridays, blackened by events that shook our world like a quake, I long for Easter with a hunger that goes deeper than jelly beans.   

 

Photo by Joy Feerrar

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