I’ve never been one for fireworks. So when she went ballistic I shrunk and tried to zen myself back to a place of balance.
I should have seen it coming from her tone, low and ominous, foreshadowing a storm. Yet the thunder and lightning that followed still came as a shock to me.
I put my hands up and used sorry like an umbrella, like a shield. Like a mantra, a magic spell to dissolve the tension in the air.
Then I took the blows, hoping to defuse her anger.
Raw with sorry and bruised by the blows, I retreated to my room. Useless. Utterly distracted by guilt.
“I feel so bad about what happened,” I later confessed to a friend, a third party to the conflict.
“You shouldn’t,” was his response. Was everyone else’s response, really.
I overused my sorry but I meant it every time.
I defaulted to being wrong when perhaps I should have stood up for my rights.
As a kid I always complained about things – anything, everything – being unfair. As an adult, I devoted my life to pursuing justice for others.
But under attack I preferred to take the blame instead of burning my bridges with my accuser.
Peace, man. That’s all I wanted. But at what cost?
Christmas is peace, is hope, is joy. But Easter truly is peace – and one so sublimely crafted from the furnace of conflict.
Death that brought life.
Jesus’ suffering for those who scorned Him.
The veil torn so that we might see God face to face.
The Friday that marks the brutal murder of Christ on the Cross is Good. With a capital G.
Good Friday: when Isaiah’s God of Justice preferred to take the blame upon Himself. So that He might build us a bridge to Himself. And that bridge is Christ.
In a world of conflict, confusion and cowardice, I’m an imperfect person trying to figure out what peace and justice look like in my day-to-day, when the abstract meets the mundane.