Heaviness in the broken overshadows my weariness in the mundane this week. I suppose if any week deserves heavy, this would be a good choice.
A cadence of brokenness undergirds all their stories. A haunting melody that sings of darkness and hurting and death. I try to hear and love without breaking. To simply listen as they casually mention their dad’s alcoholism. Or she sits twisting her hair while declaring, “as long as he doesn’t black my eye, it doesn’t matter.” Or laughingly, he requests we fill up at the Chevron because his dad doesn’t come home until 2am most nights; rather, he sits on a broken plastic stool in the Citgo, dropping coins into the slot machine like tiny pieces of hope that might finally get him a win.
I am driving back into the city and dark clouds envelop the skyline. Rain shrouds Atlanta in deep fuzzy gray. I’ve dropped the kids off at Nana’s for the weekend, and I’m just getting back on the highway, trying not to despair at the darkness ahead of me. Just overhead, I notice a miniscule pocket of light, a tiny break in the heavy blanket of clouds.
Thousands of years ago marks a day swathed in darkness, and a body racked by pain. Real pain and real darkness. Broken by thorns and vinegar in a wound. And sometimes we still live in the darkness, in the remembering that we needed blood to cover all this sin.
I keep driving, windshield wipers swatting at sporadic drops. I am waiting for the deluge that never comes. Suddenly I notice the skyline shines pink. Dark clouds still cloak their silhouettes, but the buildings themselves shimmer and dance in glittery pink and orange light. Puzzled, I twist in my seat, and realize that tiny patch of light has broke open behind me. The light can no longer be contained, no matter how dark and heavy the clouds hang over the city.
The veil tore, the earth shattered, and heaven was moved.
Sunday is coming.