Brave Enough

A woman named Mary deeply loved Jesus and Jesus, her. She was from a small town called Magdala on the Sea of Galilee. She was a brave woman, an independent woman. She was a follower and disciple of Jesus. She tended to his grave after his death. She was the first person to proclaim He was in fact alive. The day Jesus was murdered Mary must have been devastated. The crying, the grief, the sorrow was all consuming. His death was brutal. His death was without mercy. They beat him. They whipped him. They spit on him. They tore his beard from his face. She watched, horrified. The darkness she must have entered into, that sorrow and trauma must have been unbearable. At times I return to her story looking for the “good.” Wanting to fix the “brutality” of my trauma through hers. Hoping her story with Jesus reveals solace in mine. I am struck that their story doesn't seem to have a “lesson.” Only the courage to move forward among heavy grief. Sometimes shit hits the fan in the cruelest of ways. Separating us from those we love. Leaving us devastated. Love promises the present. It relies on the present to comfort and sustain. Sometimes being brave... is enough.