Redeem: 22

Today is Good Friday.

Every year it strikes me that I don't understand the fullness of this day.

But this year, I'm having another thought, a memory. 

I am remembering the Good Friday of two years ago

(or maybe was it three?). 

On that day, I drove past the church building, where I would return later to walk through the Way of the Cross. Randomly playing in my car was a song that I knew to be meaningful to you, a song about remembering the rescue of the Lord, even when you cannot see.

I was praying for you, with tears.

I didn't understand it then (Do I fully understand it now?) how it was that I cared so much, given that you had disappeared from my life. You had disappeared from a lot actually, and I cared so much that I frequently prayed for you, almost non-stop, with tears or without, in the day and even in the middle of the night.

My praying was always with the weight of: 

When are You going to do something?!

I didn't realize then that the praying--with and without tears, day and night and without my understanding--was what He was doing. All I saw was that you had disappeared, that there was darkness all around you. All I saw was that you were not alright, and I wanted to know when God was going to help.

My praying was always with the weight of:
You are the only One who can do it! So do it already.

On that day, this was my praying for you,
this urgency, this do something.

And on that day, in the middle of my words,
in the middle of my tears, He did something alright.

He spoke.

One word, PROMISE, slicing right through me with a ferocity that could only belong to Him. And in its wake, as loud and as clear as you could ask for, straight down the middle of everything, I heard Him say:

I promise you; that I will restore him to Me.

I have held this promise in my hand, for however many years its been. And in that time there has been day after day where I have held it up --straight into His face-- with fierce and bold and chronic care: 

You promised me! Don't forget.

So, today is Good Friday. And I don't fully understand, really anything, at all. But there's a promise here, for you, for us, for anyone else who wants it to be theirs.

In the cross, in the blood, in the death and the dark, is a promise we can grasp if we take it from the fierceness of His can't-forget-this hand: 

I will restore you, to Myself. The End.

[redeem, verb: to free from what distresses or harms; to release from blame or debt; to regain possession or recover ownership; 

to convert, restore, atone; to save]