Making Connections by Susan L.

  I've shared about my angst at turning fifty. The Lord lovingly reminded me my birthday falls on Good Friday this year. It's a wonderful reason to submerge myself in what Christ's sacrifice on the Cross meant. I'm thinking about the thief who was crucified with Him; who Christ assured would be welcomed in to the kingdom of heaven.
  Can I allow this thief to represent everything that has stolen my joy like my all too human concerns about everything from my house to my heart? Am I willing to let go of my constant companion of anxiety, the thief that steals my peace? (Yes!) Can I allow him to represent my troubled soul when I can't remember the lost days of the past decade? Can I allow him to speak the words of my own repentance? Could he be a representation of the thieves, the depression, the PTSD, the abuse, who invaded my life and stole so much from me?
  Can he be the thief in me who has also stolen from others?
  Yes, we all steal. Maybe not grandmother's family ring but things like ignorance, neglect, disconnect, contempt, rob others of their true value in Christ. Forgive me my sins, my Lord.
  This is a redemption story. The thief was welcomed by Christ into his Father's house. That's what this is about too. A good chunk of the bad stuff that has happened to me has been redeemed. It has enabled me to write. I have found my voice.
  I stand on the dusty ground in my imagination looking up at the Cross that bears my Saviour. The air is still and quiet but here are black clouds churning and swirling above us. It's frightfully dark and has been for several hours. There's a rattle of bones, the game pieces, as guards groan and cheer over the fickle blessings of chance. They've divided the blood soaked garments that adorned my Lord. It's hard not to hate them for their greed. If only they knew Who this Man was.
  I look over at Mary. How hard it must be for a mother to outlive her Son. Her face is a mask of pain even though she must have known He was born for a higher purpose. I wonder if she knew it meant His crucifixion? John is her son, now. Jesus made it so. I'd love to wrap my arms around this heartbroken mother and assure her. Just as He took care of her, her Son will be able to comfort many in the years down the road. Far more than she could possibly imagine.
  This Man, this Son of God, this Saviour carries a piece of all of us on that cross. The sins of the world, mine and yours, which must be a heavy burden no one else could bear. I hope He dies soon, He has suffered enough. A violent whoosh of air stirs up the dust. The driven grit stings my face.
  "Then the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two. And when Jesus had cried out with a loud voice, He said, "Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit." Having said this, He breathed His last." Lk 23:45-46