The winter solstice begins tomorrow; it’s cold, rainy, and cloudy. In a way, this could describe the last 15 months of my life. My last post described Mt. Moriah. Unfortunately, this post concerns the cross. This post concerns death.
The path leading up to the cross is no walk in the park. Carrying the cross and its burdens become who you are. Before you know it, you’ve walked less than a mile and you are accepting death. But what does this path look like? It’s a path of people who you trusted spitting on you. It’s a path of those in authority over you questioning every finger you move. Blinded by betrayal, you find yourself alone, desperate, clinging to anyone who will just hear you out. While some find comfort in despair, the cross has no relief, no life–only death.
The cross is a place where everyone you loved is nowhere to be found. And while you find others hanging by your side, most either care too much for themselves or just don’t understand what you’re going through. The cross is goodbye. It’s destruction to everything you’ve been building on. Every hug you embraced, every tear you’ve shared–the cross finds those cherished moments and becomes the devastator of all things loved. Whether it is slow or quick, the cross penetrates the very core of each person journeying there. There is no joy in the cross.
Despicable. Disgusting. Friends look upon a stranger. To the heavens I look up and find my own creator with a turned head. Questions plague–what kind of Love are you? I thought You loved me? Where are you? And finally…it arrives.
The final breaths exhaust each heartbeat and withers the soul. Eyes dim. Tears flooded and run out. Stomach eating itself alive. Hands shaking. And with one last shout, the voice cries out the final sound of death-the final sound of life. It is finished!
The rains fall; the cold overcomes the lifeless remains. The clouds surround the body. Thunder lets the corpse down as the mud invites in the flesh back into its home. Snow wraps the remains. Golgotha. Mortality. The name suits. Like a fitted tuxedo, death dances with those mutinous cowards. The cross–the nature of the beast. No one believes. No one assists. Loneliness is her name. I am become death, destroyer of myself.
*Now, before everyone thinks I’ve gone off the deep end, remember this is part of a series. The first was “Season of Moriah.” This is part two. Part three will come in January.
