Good Friday

In 2010 I went on a mission trip to Rwanda and came home with a souvenir. Latent Tuberculosis. A couple of doctor visits, xrays and skin tests later and I was a member of a new positive club. As a result I spent nine months on antibiotics, undergoing periodic liver tests and managing odd diet restrictions. Eight years later I still find myself grateful whenever I read mention of TB, consumption or other accounts of wheezing, coughing heroines dying on couches. Another age and that would have been me.

When the doctor told me my diagnosis and the required treatment I grumbled for a few days and then kicked my attitude into gear and dealt with the facts. I had TB. Didn’t want to have it activate. Didn’t want to spread the disease to anyone else. Didn’t want to die. So I took the medicine.

I didn’t like it. Didn’t really understand it. But I was grateful for the cure and that’s all that really mattered.

Good Friday hits me in the same place. I don’t know why sin requires blood. I don’t like the violence of the Roman crucifiction. It’s sad and awful and gross and humbling. The idea that the Creator of everything came to be with his people and they mocked and killed him makes my stomach hurt. The fact I believe my own mess was part of his pain is burdensome. (I don’t live there....I’m an Easter girl....but on Good Friday the reality strikes close).

I know people who looked at the cross and the questions it raised and walked away, They rejected the solution because it made them uncomfortable.

jesus said he came to seek and save the lost. When you are sick and someone offers a cure can I recommend you take it?

But He was pierced through for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, And by His scourging we are healed. Isaiah 53:5

Good Friday isn’t fun. It’s painful. But it’s oh so good.