even for me

On our last day with Iyad, we traveled the Via Dolorosa -- the Way of the Cross. We followed each of the traditional fourteen stations on a road that was nothing like what I had ever pictured. In our Faith Matters class, we had seen the Via Dolorosa in video, in modern times. I had gone to see the IMAX film, Jerusalem 3D, and still, I was not prepared. The streets were narrower than I expected, and although they were not as crowded the day we were there as in the videos I'd seen, it amazed me just how close the quarters were. I found myself wondering from time to time how the crowds I'd seen on the screen could even fit in the space, and where those who live there go at those times. It's difficult for me to explain how that walk felt to me. I took very few pictures -- partly because I wanted to immerse myself in the walking, in being a part of His carrying the Cross, and partly because (well, mostly because) I did not want this day to be a tourist day. I wanted to observe through the eyes of my heart, not through a camera lens.

And yet, at the end of the day, when asked about my impressions, I realized that it was not my day to be moved. That sounds horrible, I suppose, but what I mean is, that day was about the part of Jesus' life that I'd known all my life; the story I'd heard again and again. The spots that moved me were the stations with the women -- Mary, Veronica, the women and children of Jerusalem. Three of the fourteen. Despite my best intentions, I did feel like a tourist most of the rest of the time. Throughout, I prayed, asking God what I was missing, and being continually reassured that I was where I needed to be. I was, indeed, moved by the tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the silence inside was overwhelming, especially after the hubbub of the building itself.

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

Just to the side of the tomb was the chapel where we had Mass that day. Another island of silence in an otherwise crazy atmosphere. This ironwork depiction of the stations of the cross hung directly across from the door. I gazed at it, transfixed, unable to cross the threshold. The simplicity, the stark contrast in color to the stone walls, the small scale of the figures relative to the room, the fact that it was painstakingly wrought from the same type of material that fastened Jesus to the cross.....but what strikes me most, even now, is the single line connecting each station. An underline for emphasis. A single line from the ancient to now; from the past to the present. From me to Jesus himself. And a line that underscores the fifteenth station added here -- the Resurrection. As I stood in the doorway, I could, for maybe the first time ever, see that all of it was for me. Me as one, individual child of God.

And that, I think, is why the rest of the day didn't touch me the way I'd anticipated. All my life I'd been taught that Jesus died for us all, for everyone, to save the world. Which is very true. But in those moments in the doorway, for the first time, I realized and understood a subtle difference: Jesus died for each of us. Semantics? Perhaps. But the thing is, for the past few years (most of my life?) I've been struggling with the idea that I matter in the eyes of God. I've been coming to terms with the idea that I am not invisible to Him, that I cannot hide, no matter how much I want to, or try to. I am His, regardless of what I think about that. More and more I have accepted and embraced that truth. This piece of artwork is a spear that drove that truth into my heart.

At Mass, I sat beneath Mary, greeting her Son, knowing she had raised him for this day, this mission. Knowing that she had raised him that I might know him. It was all I could do to pay attention at Mass that day -- the only day I was not completely engrossed in the ritual, the readings, the responses, so moved to gaze at this iron above me, and thinking I needed to resist that urge. Today is Good Friday, and my mind keeps wandering back to the Holy Land, to the sights and sounds, the air and the water, the people, and the way of the cross. All of it.

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

All I do, Lord, I do for you. Because of what you did for me.