Growing up, I was the protestant girl in a primarily Catholic community. Besides being jealous of my Catholic friends getting to pick new names for themselves during their catechism in middle school (I wanted to be re-named Janet--don't ask why-- but Janet was no saint), the only real difference I noticed was that the cross around their necks had Jesus on it and my cross was blank. I understand the theology behind the empty cross—the focusing on the risen Christ; but as I have aged I see the wonder in the crucifixion that was largely ignored during my formative years. I sought to befriend this complexity as I grew in my faith, sensing that something was missing from my myopic understanding of the Easter story.
The first Easter Donovan and I were married we went to Guatemala to visit his aunt who was living there at the time. We planned our trip during holy week so that we could be witness to the processionals that took place in cities all over the country. Whole towns would participate in depicting Christ’s journey to his death, re-enacting the stations of the cross. I remember standing on cobble stone streets decorated with carpets of flowers, watching women sobbing as an almost life-sized plastic Christ and accompanying Mary were carried down the street by men dressed as Roman soldiers. Some would call the cracked and painted plastic statues incredibly campy, and they were, but there was undeniable life in witnessing other people’s tears. There was a juxtaposition between the fakeness of the icons and the realness of the people connecting to the symbols. They connected to the suffering of Jesus and his blessed mother and mourned for them, with them. Something many protestants don’t feel comfortable doing. They skip to the end—to the celebration—to the praise and hallelujahs. We need to learn how to formally connect to the grief so that the lilies that bloom three days later feel even whiter. There is an added appreciation for the risen Christ that comes when one has stepped into the darkness of his death and swam in that suffering, even if just for a little while.
I bought three carved wooden statues that day in Guatemala, three santos. My favorite is Mary of Guadeloupe. When I recently unpacked Mary from a box in the attic I was immediately reminded of the split up her back that I had originally discovered years ago. It was the day after my dear Uncle Bob died that I was dusting and noticed the pale Mary had begun to split in two from behind. The symbolic crack silenced me. It now serves as a precious reminder for me to allow for cracks and cleansing tears.
This holy week, this holy season of my life as I wait for our child to be given to us, is almost over. Somehow this year’s church calendar has corresponded with my own personal calendar. Lent is almost over in more ways than one and I am allowing myself to connect to the cracks and crevices of these last days. To connect to the darkness of Jesus’ final hours when he begged his father for answers and when Mary cried for her son. To connect to that eerie and long silence that existed between Friday and Sunday. Before we knew the answer—before we knew that Jesus would rise up—before we connected the dots and saw the promise. Then, and only then, will we truly know the elation of that Sunday morning.
