The stone rolled away, the folded linens spell one word: redeemed.
The holes in his hands sign that we are – she is—loved beyond anything imaginable.
Seated on the right hand of the great I AM, before the world was made, he invite us closer and closer to him. He stands on his throne, and the light – his light—fills the room with warmth and life.
She tries to drink it all in, whatever she can, as she paints this picture in her mind: a black room turned to life as vibrant golds make cracks in the walls, as the hues sing a melody that only she and I AM can hear.
Her legs give way, and she can’t tell if she wants to cry or laugh or fall to her knees or run and hug him. She doesn’t even know if she’s breathing.
With brightness peeking through the walls—seeping in where the stone has been rolled away—she sees a box on the table, small and latched. She picks it up, and her breath catches. She can’t bring herself to hold it, because she knows she won’t be able to keep whatever promise is inside. She’ll break it. Or maybe she’ll break. But before she can even move to put the box with its bronze latches down, hands cover her own-- hands calloused but soft, firm but gentle, and so so warm. Already she feels his warmness pulsing into her own hands, up her wrists, sneaking its way deeper and deeper.
It’s yours, he says.
Exhaling the breath she’s been holding, she undoes the clasp and gasps.
White robes. Whiter than she thought possible. White that is almost blinding. White that she will get dirty. She starts to cry, because there’s no way she could ever keep them clean. Even looking at them makes her feel dirty.
She feels his eyes trying to meet her own. She can’t see him clearly as tears fog her vision, but his eyes must be filled with disappointment, she thinks, as he picks up the robes.
He flicks his wrist and the robes unfold, more beautiful than she had thought. She turns her back to him because seeing them taken away would hurt more than refusing them, even if she knows she doesn’t deserve it.
And then she feels something on her back. Something smoother than silk, softer than snow, lighter than the breath she’s been grasping in her throat.
I made these robes for you. When she turns back around, stern eyes meet her own—eyes that say she’s not returning this gift any time soon. And she chuckles, his grace extending a soft smile on her cheeks.
There’s more. And he holds out to her light. She doesn’t know how, but in his calloused hands, light. Taking it in her own, she brings the ball close. It’s the burning coal that sanctifies lips. The slingshot in front of a giant. The writing on the ground before he speaks and the crowd drops their stones. It’s the word at the beginning and the crown of thorns when it is finished. It’s the stone rolled away and the linens folded.
And the light spreads inside her, warming each finger tip and shimmering down each strand of hair. The white is whiter and the gold more pure. And she thinks maybe, this is how she’s supposed to be.
Comments