So here’s the product of a tired Halee, at 12:30 last night.
I am in a dream. I am somewhere else, transported back in time. Buildings made of sand and dirt surround me, people are clothed in tan, black and green loose-fitted robes and everyone is busy walking around the village square. In my dream, there’s a man. A man so handsome, so pure, so good and so breathtakingly true that everyone is forced to stop and put down their work to watch him. He is talking to a group nearby. He speaks with passion and vigor, as if this very moment is filled with purpose and vision and He desires to fulfill it. A dirty, tired looking woman is walking towards Him, holding out her hand with timidity yet she seems assured. She touches the hem of his robe and her face brightens with newfound hope. Another woman is cradling a demon-possessed girl in her arms, she’s shaking and lurching but with one breath of this man she is healed. This man is loved. How could anyone go against Him? But then, as if a button is pressed, time zooms to another scene. This man that was once joyful and clean, is now surrounded in a cloud of dirt and dust, being kicked and abused. He’s crying out to the heavens with angry fear masking His face and black blood soaking his clothes. Villagers are holding whips, lashing out at him and causing a cracking sound of the rope breaking his skin. It makes me want to scream and make these wretched people stop. They are pelting giant, sharp stones that are leaving gashes all over his body. He’s fragile and broken, yet he continues to keep his gaze locked onto the sky, ignoring all pain and suffering. As if powered by something higher than myself, I rush forward beginning to take off my head wrap to blot His wounds when I see that my hands are filled with something scratchy. I am holding a whip. I am an accuser. I am a rebellious villager. I am them. I am dirty. I am wrong, and I cannot help Him because I am not worthy to touch His face. “Eli, Eli, lema sebachtami?” This man whom they call Jesus, with tears, sweat and blood sliding down his worn, rough face is crying but He is fading away. The ground shakes, the skies boom, and his head droops. And that’s when I know He’s truly gone. Sadness overtakes me. I hurl myself at Him, believing even He can survive this and restore my joy, but He is dead. “Hannah! Breakfast!” I jolt awake. My hair is soaked with sweat and I am breathing fast and hard. I cry out. My mother runs up the stairs and tells me it was just a dream. But I know the truth. I lived the truth. I explain the story to her between my sobs. “It was a man. He was on a cross made of wood. A long time ago.” I take a deep breath and calm myself. “He was perfect. And He died.” Even in the midst of my confusion, she’s able to tell me that not only is this a true story, but He rose again. He’s alive. I am filled with a longing, a longing so beautiful, so deep it cuts me down in my heart just thinking about Jesus. “Mom, I need to know Him.”, I tell her with passion. I stare hard into my mother’s intense green eyes. Somehow she knows. She has a smile on her lips as she tells me, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
~By His Grace,