The Day the Silence was Severed

Today's entry is Part 2 of our mini-series: Poetic Reflections for Holy Week. Be sure to also read last week's entry titled "My Body Broken."

An excerpt from "Sweeter," my debut poetry book of authentic prayer

My quest to understand the love of God began with my friend Erika on the floor of my old school hallway, our backs propped against the cold wall.

I don't remember which current life struggle I was recounting to Erika when she posed the question that pierced me straight to the heart and propelled me onto a five-year trajectory of searching.

"Do you believe God loves you?" she asked.

Woah there. Hold up.

"I mean, I believe God is love . . ." I started.

"And I believe God loves people . . ." I continued.

Why, I even believed the verse "for God so loved the world that He sent His only begotten Son" (John 3:16).

But, it was there on the hallway floor that I realized that I didn't believe - deeply, truly accept in my heart - that God loves me: deeply, intimately, and radically.

I was so rigid inside. Lies from my childhood held me captive wondering if God could really love or accept a person like me.

That night, I asked Erika to pray that I would know God's love. She did but I didn't feel anything change. At least not right away.

And not noticeably for five years either. Five long years.

Five years of repeatedly asking - practically begging - God to reveal His love to me.

Five years of straining and striving to listen for it, see it, or feel it.

Five years of struggling to truly get the message.

Five years of hurt, betrayal, and disappointments.

Where was this love of God that everyone talked about? And how did they experience it? Why couldn't I?

Then one evening, the seeming silence was suddenly severed in one of the most explicitly beautiful ways.

It came by way of a poem.

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It happened one evening in which I was captivated by the thought of how even the resurrected Jesus bore the marks of the nails on His body. I remember repeating the phrase:

“You bear the marks, You bear the marks, You bear the marks" as I pictured Jesus in Heaven, still with the evidence of the wounds from the cross on His hands.

I didn't know much but I sensed this was significant and knew I needed to write the phrase down.

That’s when the strangest thing happened.

As soon as my pen finished writing the phrase “You bear the marks,” the rest of the poem flowed out almost effortlessly before me, appearing on my paper in a matter of minutes.

I hadn't even been trying to write a poem.

The theme of Jesus’ love threading its way through the composition utterly baffled me. 

Did I just write this? How could I have? I'm the girl with the rigid heart. I'm the one who continues to ask God to show me His love but somehow never seems to get it.

Until now.

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✍🏽 The Precious Marks

Esther Yoder

You bear the marks upon your hands

Of love too vast to measure

Forever etched by arms outstretched 

These precious marks I'll treasure. 

These marks were made by suffering 

That I alone deserved

You took my place, you set your face

To the cross where grace emerged. 

Now I reach out to touch your hands

To feel each mark engraved

To trace the scars, the etched memoirs

Of perfect love displayed. 

I brush my finger upon each mark

And linger where my name is written

I'm moved to tears before you, Lord

As I behold the deep impression. 

I marvel at these precious marks

Upon my Savior's gentle hands

The Great High Priest became the least

And bore the wrath justice demands. 

These precious marks recall the story

Of a tender heart flung open wide

How the Perfect Lamb laid down His life

To purify a spotless bride. 

Oh how I love these precious marks

For He bears them not in shame

The One who was beaten, has not been defeated

But Triumphant King, forever He'll reign.

---

It's ironic to think that this is one of the most structured poems I’ve ever written in terms of syllables and rhymes. I believe the very structure of this poem is indicative of the way I used to live a life marked by such rigidity, precision, and borderline perfectionism. But Jesus met me there with His radical love and seemingly helped write this poem through me, for me. 

In the same way that Jesus invited His disciple, Thomas, to touch His hands after His crucifixion and resurrection, we’re also invited to come close and tangibly experience Jesus' love - not just during Holy Week - but all year long.

Your turn: As Holy Week approaches, would you take five minutes a day to meditate on the love of Jesus? If you find yourself in a place like I did, use that time to open your heart and ask Him to reveal it to you. Ask the Holy Spirit to bring to mind evidence of Jesus' love throughout your life and allow your heart to be moved by those memories.

The dark line that weaves through the text in the artwork above invites you to follow it with your finger in a similar motion that one might make if gently tracing the lines on someone's hands.

Trace the lines with your finger and, as you do, linger with these words of the composition. Imagine what it’ll be like the day you can trace the lines on Jesus’ hands in person. He’s not ashamed of the imperfections on His hands. Every time He looks at them, He remembers the love that compelled Him to endure the cross so that we could know His radical love and be restored to relationship with Him.

With whom do you need to share this reflection today?