It’s Good Friday.
Last year I didn’t celebrate Easter at all, save for giving the boys chocolate. I just couldn’t. I didn’t know if I still believed it and it felt hypocritical to pretend.
This year, totally unbidden, I woke up compelled to spend time meditating and painting. The compulsion came with a vision that needed to be painted.
I prepared a Eucharist meal, lit a candle and began to read the scriptures describing Jesus’ final moments. As I read about the disciples sharing the last supper with Jesus, I joined in, sipping the wine and savouring the bread.
When I read about the woman anointing Jesus’ feet with perfume and about the women wrapping and using spices on his body, in readiness for burial, the candle took me there too.
I began to meditate and paint. The careful strokes drew me into the story. Deeper still.
Click the picture to read more about the painting
Sharing the sacraments of the Eucharist as a part of a physical community is probably the one thing I miss about institutional church. The one point where absolutely everyone was on the same page. One of the few things that transcends denominations. Unity in and through the body of Christ.
