“When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.”
And pour contempt on all my pride.
On Good Friday, this is what I did. In my heart, all day long, over and over again, I poured contempt on all my pride.
It was a glorious day; chilly in the morning, bright with sunshine, full of promise. But in my heart is was a solemn day. I considered the cross on Good Friday, and it was painful. It wasn’t painful because I felt bad for Jesus, or because of the injustices he suffered, or because gore turns my stomach. It was painful because it is the most powerful reminder of exactly how badly I needed – I need – saving.
The injustice and brutality of the cross is a direct reflection of the gravity and atrocity of my sin. Oh, my sin was costly – and it is paid for.
If you ever doubt God’s justice, look to the cross. Indeed God is just.
If you ever doubt God’s mercy, look to the cross. Indeed God is merciful.
He absorbed his own wrath with his own love. He paid the debt that was owed him out of his own pocket. That would be like the CEO of Sallie Mae paying my student loan – times a billion - in blood.
If you ever start feeling entitled to things because you are a good person, just look to the cross. It will take your breath away; it will slice you. You will pour contempt on all your pride.
On this Good Friday I was sliced and humbled. I was so grateful that it felt heavy – carrying around all that gratitude. I am grateful for a God who is so huge and great and just and loving that he came to ransom me, literally. To pay the penalty for my sin. To buy me back. To save me. He saved me.
He saved me.
This Good Friday, Madeline had an egg hunt at school. Her vision teacher tricked out some eggs (extra large, with big, bold “M’s” and polka dots on them), and we had planned to show up and help her hunt. Yesterday morning I asked Dan to double check with the school and let me know what time to be there. He returned at 7:45 to find me still in bed, bleary-eyed from nursing all night, and said,
“It’s at nine.”
“As in an hour from now?“
I put on my wings (coffee, not Redbull), and flew. My mom and I had both boys fed, dressed, and out the door in time. We were ON TIME. WITH A NEWBORN. Granted, Sam ate his peanut butter toast in the car, but we remembered a bib! And wipes! WITH A NEWBORN. And as if that weren’t magical enough, just when I thought Sam would never, ever, ever talk, he told me that he was happy.
Happy, happy, happy. Peanut butter toast will do that a boy.
The egg hunt was a smashing success.
High on fresh air and productivity, we got home and hung some floating shelves in our bedroom that have been sitting around since we moved here in AUGUST. Because power drills and hammers are ALWAYS a great idea with a newborn in a bouncy seat next to you. We made up for this questionable parenting move by making an Easter Tree with the kids.
Henry’s job was to sit around looking beautiful and to break our hearts with his sweet, milk-and-honey baby breath – and he did it perfectly.
It was perfect. It was grace on top of grace.
So that is what we did on Good Friday, while I poured contempt on my pride.