Dear God,
Today, I remember a Man who wept—
not with the distant grace of a statue,
but with heaving shoulders, a trembling lip,
as if the axe that took John’s life
had split His own heart in two.
Oh, my Jesus.
You knew.
You knew the cup You’d drink,
the weight of every step to Golgotha,
yet You let grief carve its lines into Your face
when John was gone.
You, who calmed storms,
let sorrow storm through You.
Fully God. Fully man.
I watched You cry today,
and it wasn’t just acting—
it was a mirror into the tenderness of divinity
wrapped in skin.
Jonathan Roumie showed me that.
That God is not distant.
That You felt it all.
The laughter. The tears.
The loneliness. The weight.
The ache of goodbye.
Mary—
oh, Mary.
Did the night air taste like iron
as she pressed her hands together,
praying, "Let me feel it all"?
A mother’s plea: to trace the wounds
before they even came.
Did her body flinch with every lash,
her breath stall when the nail pierced?
Or was it worse—
to stand there, hollowed out,
counting each labored rise of His ribs
beneath the cross?
Her Son was captured last night,
and deep down, she knew.
She always knew.
What a week it must have been—
what a love,
to walk with eyes wide open into the ache.
And what of the ones who followed You?
Peter—loud, loyal, reckless Peter—
who once swore he'd die for You,
now trembling beside a fire,
his words betraying his heart,
his eyes searching the dark
for a chance to undo the denial.
Did he weep into his own fists,
wondering if love could rewrite failure?
James and John—
sons of thunder turned silent,
whose boldness melted into shadows.
Did they hold each other that night,
or grieve alone?
John, who stayed close enough
to hear Your labored breaths—
did his youth feel like a curse then,
unable to lift the weight from Your shoulders?
And Thomas,
always needing proof
did the ground beneath him feel real anymore?
Was the doubt born in that moment?
Not just in Your resurrection,
but in everything You were?
"If You are who You say You are,
why won’t You stop this?"
And Judas…
Oh, Judas.
Was he trying to force Your hand,
or did guilt claw at him the moment the guards stepped forward?
Did the silver pieces clatter like accusation in his hands?
Or did he kiss You and still believe
You’d rise, unharmed,
teaching them all a lesson?
Did the rope feel like mercy
before he kicked the chair away?
This is the mystery:
Love, wearing skin,
choosing the ache of loss
before the victory.
Today, the world holds its breath.
The sky goes dark.
And somewhere,
a mother folds her son’s broken body
into her arms again,
rocking, weeping,
waiting for Sunday.
And so I sit here too,
not rushing to resurrection,
not skipping over sorrow,
but honoring the grief You bore
and the love that held You there.
The love that holds us all—
even the deniers,
the doubters,
the ones who ran,
the ones who wept,
the ones who didn’t understand
until the stone rolled away.
With all the aching love in my heart,
Chloe.🤍
There is a strange, sacred beauty in surrender. It doesn’t always come with peace at first. It comes with tears, questions, and trembling hands. But in Jesus, I saw a surrender that wasn’t weak. It was love, wide open. Willing. Holy. He wasn't a sanitized Savior; He was God with calloused hands and a trembling lip.
In His death was mercy. In His suffering, He poured out grace. In His agony, He offered forgiveness. In His brokenness, He made us whole.
If Jesus, knowing the weight of it all, still chose the will of the Father—then so will I. Even when it hurts.Even when I don't understand.Even when the sky goes dark.I will choose surrender,because He did first.
Happy Good Friday, my love! Today, we grieve but not without hope. This is the ache that comes before victory, hallelujah!🤍
💚💚💚🌹
Honoring the grief that He bore but not without hope.