The place that holds my story is not one most seek out.

A hill of torture.
Where the depth of humanity’s cruelty burns,
Where shame and scorn seem to reign supreme.
Yet—
to the discerning eye,
there’s more here to be seen.

If you climb the hill to this
place of the skull—
Golgotha—
You will ache.

The despair of the condemned will weigh heavily on your heart.
The sight of weeping mothers will fill your eyes, their cries drowned out by the
jeering mob.
You will witness the immense effort it takes
to steal one labored breath.
You will watch as life slowly, savagely slips away
in an untidy and unending drip.

An innocent lamb, unblemished.
A suffering servant who sings of
forgiveness in his final breath.
This willing incarnation of love,
who leaves
no stone unturned,
no heart left to harden,
no moment unmet—
meets the worst of fates here.

Who in their right mind would willingly venture into this space?

Indeed, most of His friends dared not follow Him here.
Most scattered to the winds of fear.

To be honest, I’ve done the same.
Not just in fright—but also in disillusionment.
I turned my back, not due to a lack
Of love,
but because I had the story all wrong.

And my abandoning, my flight (which still happens) deepens the heartbreak here—
but also the capacity for hope.

For I’ve left but also returned.
I’ve stood here again and again,
drawn not by duty, but by the pain only this place can name.

But, standing is only the start.

You must also look with an unflinching gaze.
Observing at His feet—His mother, Mary,
and the other women strong enough to stay—you will feel their pain.

You will feel their power.

Watching the beloved apostle—one of the few who chose to anchor himself
at the feet of the One who called him to new life—
you will grasp that there is more to this place than death, harm, and despair.

You will see, if you too can stand there,
that the grounding and accompaniment on display
are the seeds of light in this den of destruction—
This house of torturous pain,
Nowhere for the faint or hard of heart.

For those seeds reveal that it’s also the home of hope.
The soil from which forgiveness, healing, and joy bloom.

I often stand at the foot of the cross,
watching as Jesus breathes his last.
As he forgives those who spat on him,
stealing His dignity and life.

I pray to have the strength to stand my ground in this place:
To remain rooted in love.
To keep vigil with Him, like the wondrous women whose strength I emulate.
To tenderly remove his wounded body from the cross,
and in laying him gently down,
To take oil and water and wash those wounds
with all the care and attention I have.
To tend to these wounds as my return
for the ways He has cared for mine.

This divine Physician asks for nothing—
and yet, I long to give in return.
In this place, I choose to honor his wholly holy hurts.
And while fear begs us to run like hell from a place like this,
I realize and remember that He is found here.

I see the secret that resides in each puncture:
The stone that blocks the tomb can be rolled away.

But, it is only in journeying to and through this place that
Such boulders can be moved.

Only when you weep and mourn at this Master’s feet
will you gain clarity to see what lies beyond.

Only when you tend to His glorious wounds
will you heal your own.

This place that holds my story
is one I thought I’d left for good.
I chalked it up to fabrication.
I saw the way people wielded this tale as a weapon,
damaging rather than healing.
So I left,
trampling pages underfoot,
letting silence replace my prayers.

When I finally came home,
When I at last heeded that unceasing call of love from above,
I was welcomed with the warmest embrace.
The fatted calf was slain,
a feast held for me.

I didn’t deserve this…

I couldn’t deserve this…

But…

Love doesn’t keep score
or worry about such petty concerns.
Love proclaims ownership, not possession.
It deals in deliverance, not debts.
It fills and does not falter.
Love surrounds, sustains, and never ceases.

Coming back to this place wasn’t a journey home
so much as learning to reopen my tight-shut eyes,
Which is, in truth, an unending process.

You see,
I’ve always been
right here
beneath this cross.
I just couldn’t always
sense
it.

This place where I meet Him
has always lived
within.

A cross carved not in wood,
but in me.

This place that holds my story—
Holds me too.