My body molded into the green plush chair, I stare at the pale blue walls. A whiteboard is plastered on the wall with my grandma's name scrawled on it, in addition to the dosage of medicine the doctors have given her.
My right hand hangs awkwardly in my lap, and my left hand coils over the wooden folding table to clench my grandma's cold disfigured hand.
Her frail body lies there almost motionlessly on the thin hospital bed. It had only been five days since her surgery.
Her frail body lies there almost motionlessly on the thin hospital bed. It had only been five days since her surgery.
I can feel the ache inside of her through her bones.
It's been a year since my grandma had her surgery. The day after Easter, in fact.
I remember waking up at 3:30 a.m. to get to the hospital by 5:00 a.m. My mom, stepdad, younger sister, and I piled into our blue minivan -- and then grandma stepped in. Her face somber, she adjusted herself into the empty "bucket" seat beside me.
The ride to the hospital was almost silent. The only words spoken were those referring to directions.
After arriving at the hospital, we escorted grandma in to the dimly lit waiting room. We filled out the paperwork, and after scampering from one office to another, we left her there. Dressed in a baby blue hospital gown sitting in a wheelchair, she kissed each of us goodbye.
It hurt saying goodbye. I knew I would see her again soon, but the reality of leaving her there under the care of doctors and nurses scared me. What if something went wrong during the surgery? My head flooded with questions I did not know the answers to. I was clueless and afraid.
I expect the disciples felt a similar way when their Teacher, Jesus Christ, was pierced to the cross that solemn Friday night. A perfect and holy man, embodying God himself, hanging on the cross with a crown of thorns on his head and blood coating his entire body.
The man who had taught them everything about life hung there dead, right in front of their faces.
All hope was gone.
It baffles me when I conjure up the thought that the disciples didn't know Easter Sunday was coming. What would it be like to stand in front of the cross, not knowing that the resurrection would happen three days later?
The closest moment I have to that is the moment saying goodbye to my grandma in the hospital waiting room. But even then, I knew I would see her again.
This Easter season, I am reminded of the sorrow and confusion the disciples faced while watching their Savior die on the cross between two thieves. In that moment, there was no more hope. All that had happened the three years previous was meaningless.
Thankfully, Jesus did rise from the grave and now lives in heaven. And we can have eternal life if we confess our sins and believe his death and resurrection washed away our palette of brokenness.
But what would it have been like to not know this eternal hope was coming? How would you have reacted? What would it have been like to be in the shadow of the cross 2,000 years ago?
I remember waking up at 3:30 a.m. to get to the hospital by 5:00 a.m. My mom, stepdad, younger sister, and I piled into our blue minivan -- and then grandma stepped in. Her face somber, she adjusted herself into the empty "bucket" seat beside me.
The ride to the hospital was almost silent. The only words spoken were those referring to directions.
After arriving at the hospital, we escorted grandma in to the dimly lit waiting room. We filled out the paperwork, and after scampering from one office to another, we left her there. Dressed in a baby blue hospital gown sitting in a wheelchair, she kissed each of us goodbye.
It hurt saying goodbye. I knew I would see her again soon, but the reality of leaving her there under the care of doctors and nurses scared me. What if something went wrong during the surgery? My head flooded with questions I did not know the answers to. I was clueless and afraid.
I expect the disciples felt a similar way when their Teacher, Jesus Christ, was pierced to the cross that solemn Friday night. A perfect and holy man, embodying God himself, hanging on the cross with a crown of thorns on his head and blood coating his entire body.
The man who had taught them everything about life hung there dead, right in front of their faces.
All hope was gone.
It baffles me when I conjure up the thought that the disciples didn't know Easter Sunday was coming. What would it be like to stand in front of the cross, not knowing that the resurrection would happen three days later?
The closest moment I have to that is the moment saying goodbye to my grandma in the hospital waiting room. But even then, I knew I would see her again.
This Easter season, I am reminded of the sorrow and confusion the disciples faced while watching their Savior die on the cross between two thieves. In that moment, there was no more hope. All that had happened the three years previous was meaningless.
Thankfully, Jesus did rise from the grave and now lives in heaven. And we can have eternal life if we confess our sins and believe his death and resurrection washed away our palette of brokenness.
But what would it have been like to not know this eternal hope was coming? How would you have reacted? What would it have been like to be in the shadow of the cross 2,000 years ago?
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