After an intense cleaning spree, sporting no makeup, filthy and paint splattered, I made a split decision to take a quick dump run, as I had a fair amount of garbage already loaded up in the car.

Descending down my driveway, thoughts raced through my head as I mentally planned out the rest of my agenda-filled day and tried to calculate the hours left in which to accomplish it.

As I drove along the twists and turns of the rural roads, my mind zooming in a million different directions, the little long-standing country church that I had passed more times than I could count, suddenly caught my attention.

The small white-wooded Methodist church, complete with its double front doors and usually donning matching seasonal wreaths, sits on a secondary road that leads to the main highway into town.

I have passed this church almost on a daily basis for over two decades.

On occasion, particularly warm and sunny Sunday mornings, as I myself drive past rushing to my own place of worship, my eyes are drawn to the small congregation standing outside, dressed each Sunday in their absolute best: men in suits and ties, and ladies with lavishly floral brimmed hats.

The church, or rather the parking lot, does happen to hold a somewhat humorous memory for me, too.

Many moons ago, as I was transporting my then primary-aged children to school one morning, I quickly jetted off into the church’s parking lot as I heard my then five-year-old start the sentence, “Mama, I don’t feel so-“

Which was followed by a blood-curdling shriek from my then ten-year-old, as the younger one ejected his breakfast of eggs and orange juice all over her and the backseat.

Other than that, the church, like many other landmarks that I pass on my daily trips out to civilization, occur only in my cyclic peripheral vision as I whiz down the road on many a mission.

But this day,

the day of the dump,

the day I prayed no one I knew would catch me in this ghastly state,

the day I had a gazillion things to do and no time to do them,

the church grounds managed to catch my attention, and without the help of a gathering of beautifully dressed churchgoers, or of an emergency vomit pull over.

Today what drew my eyes in the church’s direction, were its three wooden crosses that stand in the center of the church’s modest cemetery and memorial grounds.

I felt compelled to pull over, so I did.

Had I seen these crosses before?

Surely I had…

Yes of course, I passed this place every day.

But had I ever really “noticed” them?

 

The center cross, usually the bigger of the three, represents the cross where Jesus was crucified. On the right and left, the smaller crosses, are for the two thieves that were also sentenced with Him.

I’ve seen many displays of this cross trio, some with big elaborate crosses constructed higher than the places of worship themselves. Some with their very own spotlight making it visible for miles.

During the Easter Season and Holy Week, many of these displays dress the center cross in purple, black and white silken drapes to signify the week of Jesus’ death, and resurrection.

But not these crosses.

These three were assembled out of simple, slender tree trunks. Not crafted or finished in any special way, but constructed in their natural state, and almost blending in with the tree line behind them.

HAD I ever noticed them before??

As I sat in my car looking at these three seemingly humble crosses, images flashed in my mind as I saw a battered, beaten, bruised and broken Jesus…

 

In 2004, filmmaker Mel Gibson debuted his film “The Passion of the Christ” which he wrote alongside screenwriter Benedict Fitzgerald, and directed.  The movie depicts the last twelve hours of Jesus’ life according to the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

The film’s one-hundred and twenty-seven-minute running time is one of a very grueling and graphic adaptation of the brutality that Jesus Christ endured leading up to His crucifixion and death on the cross.

I had gone with a group to see this movie in the theaters. I remember buying my ritualistic small popcorn and drink that would remain untouched beside me throughout the film.

Right from the opening scene in the Garden of Gethsemane, this cinematic portrayal created nothing less than turmoil inside me, as I spent over two heart-wrenching hours watching what Jesus Christ endured on my behalf. On all of our behalfs.

I remember I left the theater with an excruciating headache.  It was a painful movie to watch, as it should be.

But as we know, there is a very happy ending, resulting in a very happy ending for all of us- should we choose to accept it.

In the rush and busyness of a day filled with rapidly depleting hours,

I was reminded of a simple little Bible verse.

A Bible verse I learned before I could read,

“For God so loved the world,

That He gave His Only begotten Son,

That whosoever believeth in Him, shall not perish,

But have everlasting life.”

John 3:16

 

A reminder that was much needed.

A reminder that came in the form of three country crosses

I had never noticed before.

 

His Offer

On that day He knew YOU, thousands of years before you were born,

YOUR image was in His mind, as He was beaten, bruised and scorned.

While a piercing crown of thorns was forced upon His head,

YOUR life, again He envisioned, as He unselfishly bled.

The chains and belts that whipped Him,

YOUR sins they did entail,

Enduring this gruesome act, He saved YOU from a deserving hell.

The tree that was chosen for Him, to become His death cross,

YOUR name was etched inside the wood, so all YOUR sins would be a loss.

His body beaten and broken, while lying on that tree, He knew,

The blood He spilled was worth it, He shed it just for YOU.

With each nail driven through Him, YOUR name He shouted above,

The pain and suffering He withstood, was His amazing gift of love.

An eternal reward He paid for, at such a costly price-

He was sent to die for YOU, through this ultimate sacrifice.

Salvation is what He offers-to be accepted or denied,

Eternity is forever,

Which will YOU decide?