So the stone is rolled away. The tomb is vacant. But my nets are empty. I have been struck with these scenes, after the long dark night was supposed to be over, snippets I glimpse at times in my life. The huge stone is not a problem. But the empty tomb is so dark. How many times do I sit in the gloom rather than run to the blinding light?
How many times have I heard the voice outside my tomb — outside my pain, my regret, my yearning for what has never come true, dreams crushed or fading – and didn’t recognize the Voice of everything I really need.
So many times I’ve gone on my way—the boot-strap thing.
Who is that calling to me across the waters?
Across the waves I sometimes struggle to keep my head above?
A voice so familiar. Yet, I’m never really sure.
Until I am close.
Until I see the hands.
Until I see the provision.
And hear the words of forgiveness.
Then, I can begin, again.
This side of the tomb.
Spirit deep into all the cracks, into the open wounds and into the scars, into the soft vulnerable places and into the hard, walled-off places.
Until the Wind dries my cheeks and the nail-scarred Hand lifts my chin.
And I can finally look into the Light.