Good Friday The Path to Easter

Tomorrow is Good Friday, and even if you don’t believe in the Christian pillar which chronicles Christ’s journey through unimaginable torture and pain, my guess is this journey of The Cross has found you or someone you love regardless of religious tradition. Trial without certainty; blind-sighting difficulty, or being thrust into the hazy trajectory of the unknown make real the heavy burdens of our human experience. Suffering is not bound by religion, cultural practice or any other metric of reason.

My son has a good friend.  Well, he has many good friends, but this one in particular has been a close buddy since High School. Their tight-knit group has stuck together for the past almost 20 years. 

Several months ago, this friend, at the age of 34, was diagnosed with a very tough cancer. The diagnosis was unimaginable, and brought his young life to a tenuous and worrisome standstill. Suddenly, his existence was defined by oncologists, radiologists, surgeons, and insurance adjusters. The rug from his young life has been pulled out from under him. His chemotherapy regime has been brutal. From a medical standpoint, it needs to be. He is too young and has too much abundant life to live; so blasting the “you know what” cancer cells out of his body is necessary. But this has stretched this young man’s definition of adversity. Feeling sick, depleted, worried, and anxious has become his new normal. 

Then, he endured a major surgery to remove the source of cancer. As if that weren’t enough, he faces additional rounds of chemotherapy to irradicate any lingering cancer cells that may be lurking. His Cross is upon him. My son, his friends, and those of us from afar have been heartsick. How can such awful things happen to such good people. It sometimes seems like the worst happens to the best. 

This timeless existential question has little to offer in satisfactory answers, yet Good Friday challenges us to seek promise and not give up despite it all. We must persist in helping one another to move forward in courage. The journey of The Cross calls us to do so. No matter how big the bully of adversity is, the melting of its power comes in the humblest of ways. Helplessness might make us feel like an insignificant grain of sand, but the story of the tiny remnant, which has survived the rhythm of the sea for eons has something to profound to offer. 

Enter a cup of soup, a card, a text before chemo, or the offer to water plants. Each might feel inadequate or insignificant when faced with such a big adversity. This is where the journey becomes bearable and shareable. That which we do together is greater than any burden we bear alone. Grains of sand; offerings of love. Might seem trivial, but mighty in power.

Sometimes, we need to build hope, brick by brick. For my son’s friend, hope might be a the gift of tasting something good that doesn’t wreak havoc on his healing body. Maybe then he will feel more energized, which might allow him to feel stronger so that he can take a walk among the Spring flowers rising in defiance of stubborn winter frosts. And then, maybe his spirit will be empowered to tackle the next chemotherapy ahead. 

Next year, I image my son’s friend with a new head of hair. Along with a multitude of others, I hope with audacious intention for him. I pray he will be immersed in the business of dreams, where cancer occupies but a chapter in his long and abundant life.  In the meantime, I think some split pea soup might offer a chance at tasty tolerance, offering a moment of respite. It’s just how we get through. Easter means nothing without Good Friday. Hope is brave; it’s bold, and it’s possible. Happy Easter, Josh.