You Will Be with Me {A Reflection on the Last Words of Our Savior on the Cross}

HaydnsSevenLastWordsSketchesLisaScottLast week, several musicians, writers, and artists from my church gathered with our congregation on St. Patrick’s Day to share a contemplative selection of music and meditations in the tradition of Joseph Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Our Savior on the Cross. It was a moving experience. My 6 year-old daughter sat on my lap after my segment, and whispered the rest of the time about the things she heard and saw. After the meditation on Jesus’ loving words to Mary and John, the string quartet began playing the sonata to match. Farah looked at the artwork on the screen, swayed to the lilt of the strings, and then whispered in my ear, “They’re still talking about Mary and John, they’re just saying it in a violin kind of way.” After the “I thirst” reading, she moved her arms and whispered in rhythm, “The strings are saying, ‘Give me water. Give me water.'” Through the old melodies and Scripture, and the fresh words and original art, we children and adults anchored ourselves in the moment and marveled at how Jesus actively loved through the worst of pain. Below, you’ll find the words and audio recording of my piece reflecting on the interaction between Jesus and the repentant criminal in Luke 23:39-43. I pray it helps you pause and consider the wow-factor of what Jesus did on the cross, how he conquered the “fight or flight” instinct and stayed present in the pain until it was finished. Continue reading

Through Thorny Ways

MasonJarRosesHymn{Gracia Rose turned two this week. I plan to post photos from this year’s party soon, but for now, here is a little background about her name and some recent reflections along with some pictures from the Rose Garden Party we hosted to celebrate her first birthday last year.}

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My thin sweater did nothing to ward away the chill in the air. The smell of wet earth hung on the wind. I slopped my high heels through grass and mud on the way to the stadium where my littlest brother would be sliding the tassel from one side of his cap to the other, crowded in by hundreds of other robed students doing the same.

Murky water seeped into my shoes on my walk to the concrete. I wanted to grumble, but all I could think about were the waterlogged feet of a woman on the other side of the world, a woman wandering with holes in her boots and a gun to her head. She had walked that way for days, then weeks, then months. By now it had been almost a year since she and her husband were forced from a bungalow on their second honeymoon by a gang of rebels.

The woman’s name was Gracia. And I prayed for her. Continue reading