Written on April 19, 2014

IMG_1116By Lisa Huddleston

This is the day that lies between the cross and the resurrection. The tomb is silent. No one yet can visit the battered body to prepare it properly, because it is the Sabbath; no work allowed. Jesus’ body lies cold, silent, and alone.

Can you imagine? Jesus had never been alone. Never. From the beginning he was the Word, and he was with God. An intrinsic part of the Trinity, of the Three that is One. Forever. Until that awful moment on the cross. “Father,” he cried, “why have you forsaken me?” And he was alone.

Although I often choose to be alone, I despise feeling lonely. It is like death.

But because Jesus suffered, dying a real death not only a symbolic one, I can run to a Living Savior who knows my pain. And when I do, I am truly never alone. I am a Holy Temple filled to overfull with the presence of a Holy God.

Because of Jesus. Hope will come, is already here, and will come again.

Yes, yes, and yes!


imagesBy Lisa Huddleston

It rained this whole long Sunday, and my husband built one of the last fires of this season while the dog and I curled up and dreamed one more time at the foot of our blue and orange altar. Only four more days and the official first day of spring will arrive. Tight-fisted buds with green tips, my first-born’s birthday celebration, and the first tick of the year found tightly affixed to the inside of the dog’s back leg have already come. And soon and very soon, we are going to see the spring.

And I am glad to know that the change is coming–as I always am. But this year I am less sure as to how it should be received. The young will rejoice with pastel and seersucker and bonnets and eggy baskets of pink and blue crunchy sugar. The old will smile and feed the excitement by hiding treasures in the tall grass and behind the roots of old trees, enabling the myths and stoking the fires of faith.

And apart from it all, not young and not quite yet old, I will watch and pinch a smile and wonder at my role to play.

“You know how to tell a change in the weather, so don’t tell me you can’t tell a change in the season, the God-season we’re in right now” (Luke 12:56).


By Lisa Huddleston

The damned nails
Picked out of a basket
On the way into the dimly lit
Sanctuary of Christ
A silent service
But iron nails kept falling
On the hardwood floor
Building my anxiety, my judgment, my frustration
Damned, noisy nails
Damned, noisy people
Seven silent words
Spoken once but tonight
Printed words on a screen
Then pounding
Nails into wood
But first through tender flesh
Not for judgment
But for forgiveness
For my sin, my carelessness, my clumsiness
And the damned nails
Held Him there until
It was finished