By Lisa Huddleston
Random and unpolished thoughts on the Saturday in between.
Insecurity as well as anticipation. I know what is coming–what came to those who waited. And that makes all the difference between me and them.
My insecurity rests mainly in shallowness. Of concerns over my role tomorrow as hostess to a large number for dinner. Leisure to stress over food and cleaning a cluttered house.
They feared for their lives and grieved. How could the Messiah die? Rocking and holding tight arms around frail, shaking bodies.
I shrug and worry about how much ham we need.
Even hammering a symbolic nail into a symbolic cross I can only at best imagine. And only at best see others crying. And only at best grieve my lack of tears. Ashamed of dry eyes and a distant heart.
But I know what they did not. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning!
Does that explain dry eyes?
