We Can't Look Away - The Easter Week Series
Elizabeth Moore
“Dark black ominous clouds move slowly across the mortal sphere.
A promising downpour threatens the unrest souls...
This brooding storm, created from fallacies that suffocated the truth.
Forceful winds of propaganda demoralize the virtuous.
Fierce lighting reveals the shamelessness of the dark heart.”
*Written from my bed on this very rainy day*
It's Tuesday, and I’m honestly so ready to quit all this melancholy and fast forward to the resurrection.
I want Sunday. I want to skip over the mid-week darkness. I want to forget the betrayals and the murder plots. And the blood. Oh, the blood is coming, and my stomach turns just thinking about it.
But I can’t look away.
It’s Tuesday, and the rain won’t stop. My bright yellow rain jacket is dripping water onto the carpet and soggy grocery bags are on the counter. Last night, the rain threw itself in sheets against the window, and I closed my eyes--listening to the steadiness and the shattering.
Pretty soon there are tornados hovering and trees splitting and warnings to hide in the bathtub.
We can’t look away.
My roommates and I get in the car, because we’re young and crazy. We drive out to the lake to hang out with friends. And during the entire drive, the sky is lit up with magnificence and danger and light. We gasp as an entire root system of lightening crawls sideways across the sky. We’re amazed, and we’re terrified. We’re not safe, but we have nothing to fear.
And a little after midnight, I fall asleep to the sound of rain that still hasn’t stopped. Flashes of lightening wake me up periodically in the night, as if to say, “Don’t look away.”
And this morning I wake up to rain, and more rain, and heavy clouds that make the darkness linger.
And on this Tuesday of Easter week, I can’t look away, even though I want to.
I can’t help but notice the withered fig tree, the vacant room of overturned tables, the whispers of religious leaders, the clinking of change in Judas’ pocket, the woman with the perfume giving everything she has—hints of the disaster and the deliverance to come.
There is hope--always hope--but for now we're drenched in a monsoon of betrayal, denial, sleeplessness, and blood drops in the garden.
Something is simmering but the lid is still on. And I’m walking on eggshells, flinching at the thunder, and getting ready for the storm.