I realized this morning that sometimes I think I am walking the way, red votive in hand, feeling through pray and spiritual life, when actually I may be sitting in the tomb.
There is something sacred in the tomb.
Sitting with what happened.
Understanding it.
Touching the blood-stained stones.
But the tomb is not the destination, it is a threshold.
So the question becomes:
Are we gestating in the tomb or are we wallowing in it?
Because gestation leads somewhere. Wallowing does not.
At some point we need to move.
There was a release, a flash of light.
A transformation that also asks something of us.
And that is the harder part.
To leave the tomb requires letting go of the identity formed in the pain,
of the intimacy with the wound, even of the quiet safety of reflection.
Otherwise what is the purpose?
I can still walk through ruins candle in hand and gently brushing the stones. But I can also focus on the light, the answered prayers that occurred there, the hope that may be oozing out of the walls.
The hope that does not remain sealed in the stone.
Sometimes it is messy, even dirty, not clear, but you can see glimmers that peek through the grime.