“what do you think he thought about when he was carrying his cross?”
the three of us have bent thorns into crowns and we have touched lightly where they pierced clean through. we paint pain to remember.
my son answers with these words and i’m struck. i think he’s exactly right.
and there’s no resolution on good friday.
the death happened and even though we know sunday comes, that’s not the point today. we bow our heads and thank him for dying for us. for being arrested in the garden not for his crimes, but for ours.
and i pray for them to know him and love him all of their days.
“i know him and love him.” ella tells me.
me too, lovely pardoned one, me too.