Dread

His little shoulders sagged under the weight of his schoolbag. It was nearly as big as him and half as heavy. It was all he could do to stay upright while we walked, hand in hand, up to his classroom door. He looked up at me and I could see hesitation in his eyes. It wasn’t the bag that made his steps falter. It was the fear, the uncertainty. He didn’t know what was on the other side of that door. Would he be as loved, as safe, as protected as he was at home with us?

In his heart of hearts, he knew he wouldn’t be. So he stood beside me, quietly pleading to stay with me. And everything in me wanted to pick him up and take him back home - my baby boy, if only I could spare you from feeling any pain or hurt. If only I could take away your fear and heartache. Yet I remained standing. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his bag, and the door stood before us.

On the other side of that door was hardship, struggle, angst, isolation, challenge, pain, cruelty, indifference and fear. There was also a promised hope. Life; a new kind of life. An opportunity for something more. There was an adventure to seek and a treasure to find. There was a kingdom to rule and people to serve. There was love to share and to give away. And all of it lay beyond that door. I held him and kissed his sweet brow and wished him a wonderful day; scraped knees, bruises, heartache, and all.

He walked through the door, hitching his bag higher up onto his shoulders. That’s my son, who I love, in him I am well pleased. Home was behind him now, but it also lay before him. By day’s end, those precious shoulders would be able to carry the weight of the world and fear would be a thing of the past.

“Then he said to them, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.” And going a little farther he fell on his face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will.” Matthew‬ ‭26‬:‭38‬-‭39‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Betrayal

She stood in disbelief with his phone in her hand. Each message was a dagger. She could hear him whistling in the shower, through the ensuite door. His phone vibrated again, lighting up with another message. Another illicit invitation for her husband to abandon her. An invitation he had been accepting for…weeks? Months? It was hard to tell. She couldn’t seem to scroll all the way up. There were… So. Many. Messages.

She felt sick. There were pictures too. And graphic confessions of their desire for each other. Disgust and grief flooded her. She had to sit down. Her hands were trembling and the whole world had shrunk down to this screen. She couldn’t bare to look, but she had to know. Who? When? Why? She kept scrolling until a date caught her eye: their wedding anniversary. She remembered noticing how distracted he was that day. Even when they went out to dinner to celebrate, he was still on his phone. He told her it was work stuff. He offered half hearted apologies as he kept checking his phone, in between stilted conversation. She remembered feeling bad for him. He looked so stressed and unhappy. She remembered trying to cheer him up, and then trying to give him space. Meanwhile, he was mocking her to his lover. Telling this other woman how stupid she was, how oblivious and naive. Telling her all the ways he preferred her.

Caustic rage was erupting within her soul. How could he? Who was this man? This couldn’t be her husband. She thought she knew him. She thought he adored her. How could she have gotten it so wrong? How could she be so blind? What was so wrong with her that he had to go to another? Her jaw was clenched as tears started to roll down her face. She couldn’t read anymore.

He was humming now. Then the water stopped abruptly. A few seconds later, he called out to her, ‘Hey, have you seen my phone?’. The ensuite door opened. He emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. Hair still wet, a faint smile on his face. Until he saw her, sitting on their bed. Grief and cold fury in her eyes, tears staining her cheeks, with his phone in her hands. He immediately knew what she had seen. The colour left his face and his faint smile slackened to dumb shock.

“Then [Peter] began to invoke a curse on himself and to swear, “I do not know the man.” And immediately the rooster crowed. And Peter remembered the saying of Jesus, “Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.” And he went out and wept bitterly.” ‭‭Matthew‬ ‭26‬:‭74‬-‭75‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Injustice

My mouth still tasted like vomit. Every Monday morning it was the same. I’d walk to school, and after passing through the front gates, I’d take a hard left, away from all the cars dropping off the other kids, away from all the prying eyes, and I’d throw up into a bush. Not by choice, mind you.

I’d feel sick all morning. Actually, I’d feel sick the night before, as my mind would race in bed, knowing that the weekend was over. And that trepidation would sit in the pit of my stomach, slowly gestating into terror. I’d carry it during my morning routine, robotically getting ready for the day ahead. I’d bear it as I crossed three kilometres of dirt road and sparse fields, until finally reaching the school gates. Then I’d heave it out into those poor bushes.

I don’t know why Jason hated me. Maybe it was the way I looked? The way I was? Maybe he was jealous? Or maybe he was just sad and angry? Whatever his reasons, what remained was that he didn’t like me, and he wanted to hurt me.

This particular Monday morning, I was 8 years old, I was at the water fountain, gargling the taste of throw up out of my mouth, when I was shoved hard from behind, into the jet of water spraying upwards. I heard the stupid sound of Jason and his friend’s laughter behind me before turning around with wet face and hair. I don’t know why every bully is flanked by a pair of baboons, but Jason and his friends didn’t mind fitting the stereotype. He and his cronies guffawed, pointing at me, making a show of my mishap. Until they finally regained composure enough to tell me, menacingly, that they had a surprise waiting for me at lunch time.

I’m no fool, I know what they meant by surprise. And they knew that I knew. They wanted to watch me sweat and squirm in fear. I was determined not to give them that satisfaction. But my mind was preoccupied all morning with how I could avoid the lunchtime ambush. I finally settled on the need to tell my teacher.

At recess, I found him wandering the quad. Mr Garth, stern but fair, he would do something, I thought. Blind hope made me forget that he had never done anything before. So I told him of my predicament and the veiled threat that Jason had made. He cocked his head at me like he didn’t understand, with an expression of distaste. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

My heart sank, ‘because I need help,’ I replied.

‘You know, no one likes a tattletale,’ he finally answered before walking off.

Lunchtime came and I was alone. I tried to sneak my way to the library, but Jason planned for that. He was there as I rounded a corner. He pointed at me with a smile on his face before charging at me with his friends in tow. I bolted, running around the maze of classrooms, trying to get as much distance between us as I could. Heart pounding and mouth dry, I desperately thought that I needed to get into a classroom. I ran to a door and quickly tried to turn the nob, but the door was locked. I frantically tried to ram the door open like a desperate, cornered animal. But it was too late. Jason rammed his full weight into me while I was pressed up against that locked door. I felt my left collar bone snap. I collapsed in pain. It took a few gut punches and getting spat on, before they realised that I was seriously hurt. They ran away. I couldn’t lift my left arm, the pain was searing every time I tried.

After trying to clean myself up with one arm, the bell rang. I went back to class and walked straight up to Mr Garth. ‘I can’t move my arm,’ I said, nodding at my limp limb with tears in my eyes. He ignored me and told me to sit down. Jason was a few seats away, smirking at Mr Garth’s indifference.

We had old wooden desks with heavy hinged lids. As class started, we were instructed to pull out our books and pencils out from our desks for our lesson. With a broken arm, this task was impossible, but it didn’t stop me from trying. I whimpered in pain, as I attempted to prop the heavy wooden lid onto my broken shoulder, so I could reach inside with my uninjured arm. I faltered and the lid slammed down loudly. Mr Garth was exasperated. I had annoyed him for the last time that day. He declared me a menace and an attention seeking cry-baby before the whole class.

I was told to sit in the corner of the class, and that’s where I stayed until the last bell rang. I struggled to carry my schoolbag, my left shoulder wouldn’t let me swing the strap, let alone bear the weight of it. As I wrestled with the pain, Jason pushed past, hitting my broken arm one last time. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said with a smile, both straps firmly secured over both shoulders.

“But the crowd kept shouting, “Crucify, crucify him!” A third time he said to them, “Why? What evil has he done? I have found in him no guilt deserving death. I will therefore punish and release him.” But they were urgent, demanding with loud cries that he should be crucified. And their voices prevailed. So Pilate decided that their demand should be granted. He released the man who had been thrown into prison for insurrection and murder, for whom they asked, but he delivered Jesus over to their will.” ‭‭Luke‬ ‭23‬:‭21‬-‭25‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Humiliation

He begged her for it. Wouldn’t stop asking.

At first, he asked timidly. She felt a thrill when he did. It made her felt wanted. Not just wanted, but powerful. She liked this side of him, and this side of herself. Confident, desired, in control. So she teased him. She toyed with him. But she kept him at arms length because, truth be told, she was afraid. She knew it was too much to give, and there was too much at stake. Even flirting with the idea was enough to give her a twang of guilt.

She couldn’t give him up, though. She liked the high he gave her. So she kept teasing and toying. And he became more insistent and more bold. He asked her with swagger and with boyish charm. Sometimes he asked her through jokes; some were funny, some weren’t, she laughed at all of them anyway. But she began to feel pressured. There were times she wanted to stop talking to him altogether - he was crossing boundaries. She felt herself losing control. Guilt and fear would kick in again. But then she’d miss him, or she’d see him talk to one of her friends, or he’d be really sweet to her. And so she’d talk herself out of her anxiety and guilt. She’d tell herself sweet lies. That he cared about her. That he loved her. That she loved him.

Then he started demanding. He started acting entitled. Shy requests were replaced with debates over why she should do what he wanted. Flirty jokes turned into bargaining tactics. He started to get distant when she didn’t behave the way he wanted her to. He dangled his affection over her like a treat, and he made her beg. She saw what was happening, and she was terrified. But she couldn’t let go of the lies. She couldn’t give up her drug.

He eroded her sense of self and her agency. She started feeling guilty saying no. She was always afraid she would lose him. She didn’t know if someone else would love her the way he did - after all, he told her no one would. She needed him and she needed to make him happy. So she started to compromise. In seemingly small ways at first. She told herself it was no big deal, other people her age were doing it, she convinced herself she was the problem. She saw how happy it made him, how it kindled the embers of his desire for her. And so the compromises grew and they took less convincing.

So one day, he demanded again, and this time, she said yes. She did what he wanted. Even when he said he wanted to film it. She was numb to any possible consequences. Numb to any sense of herself. Numb to the fear. Conscience and any semblance of wisdom seared. Bled dry on the altar of desire. All she wanted was to avoid disappointing him.

That was the last night she spoke to him. He didn’t reply to her messages the next day. Every time she tried calling, she’d get a dial tone. He couldn’t have ghosted her, she thought…he loved her…? She gave him a day, then two, still no response, still only a dial tone. She reached out to her friends. They wouldn’t respond either. She started panicking. She desperately rushed over to a friend’s house for answers and knocked on her door. Thankfully her friend was home and opened the door. But she wasn’t greeted with a smile, or any enthusiasm. It was hard to tell the expression on her friend’s face. Pity? Disgust? ‘We can’t see each other or hang out,’ she said monotonously and started closing the door on her.

She blocked the door from closing with her arm and leg, ‘why?’ She asked frantically.

In response, her friend pulled out her phone and opened a group chat she wasn’t apart of - with many names she knew and many names she didn’t. She saw a message from him in the chat. It was a link to a site.

“Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the governor’s headquarters, and they gathered the whole battalion before him. And they stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they spit on him and took the reed and struck him on the head. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the robe and put his own clothes on him and led him away to crucify him.” Matthew‬ ‭27‬:‭27‬-‭31‬ ‭ESV‬‬

The Things He Carried: All For Love

He carried what we all carry.

There was a moment, just after Jesus crested Golgotha, and just before the nails were driven into his hands and feet, a moment where there was a reprieve. Where Roman soldiers may have been too busy arranging planks of wood and gathering up rope, nails and hammers to pay attention to Jesus. A moment where religious leaders and blood thirsty crowds hadn’t yet summited the hill. Perhaps Jesus felt a brief sense of relief during this moment? Perhaps, for Him to lay on that cross, after trudging miles in the hot sun, bearing a splintered log on his flayed flesh, would have felt like taking a rest? But how much relief can you feel when a hammer is poised high up above you? And the nail it’s about to come down on is digging into your wrist?

Or perhaps this was not relief and respite but the last stretch of the marathon. The final wall to break through, the critical moment where profound exhaustion and mental fortitude feel like they’re about to give way, and you don’t know if you’ll be able to finish the race?

Whatever He felt in that moment, and every moment before and after it, He remained. The hands that hung the stars throughout the cosmos and crafted our innermost being, hung on a dead tree. The carpenter’s hands that handled wood, hammer and nails, became the corporeal wood, for the grotesque craft of Rome’s hammer and nails. He chose it and continued to choose it, all His life and in eternity past. Why?

The heaviest burdens Jesus carried on that Good Friday were not the physical ones of the cross or disfigured flesh. No, the heaviest burden He carried was the worst of us. He faced and carried the dread we desperately try to numb ourselves to. He shouldered the searing betrayal of those He loved, precisely at the moment He needed them the most and offered forgiveness on the other side. He bore the most outrageous injustice imaginable to be able to offer true righteousness. He carried the humiliation of His marred nakedness, hung up on the shameful cross, for all to see and sneer at, while praying for their forgiveness. He bore and became sin - the very thing that whipped, tortured, mocked and nailed him to the cursed tree - to put it to death, once and for all.

Jesus bore the worst of us…

Why? Because of the joy set before Him. Why? Because perfect Love wants to cast out all your fear. Because Love wants to keep no record of your wrong and your betrayal. Because Love wants you to rejoice in the truth and wants to set all things right. Because Love is patient and kind towards you. Because He bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. He never fails.

Behold, the cross. Behold, the Love of God.

“Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down. And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God, a punishment for his own sins! But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.” Isaiah‬ ‭53‬:‭4‬-‭5‬ ‭NLT‬‬