A Lot Can Happen In Just Three Days

The Son is Always There
Photo by Sherri Woodbridge

It was three days later. Three days after they had laid him behind the stone that everyone said would take at least six men to move, most likely more.

Three days after he had told his closest friends he would be back. Three days after his would-be, so-called followers asked for his blood to pay for crimes he didn’t commit.

Three days. A lot can happen in three days but in this town not much was happening. People were quiet. Afraid. Despairing. Hopeless. In hiding. Unaware.

Quiet for the uproar had subsided. It was believed the cause was now gone. But, a lot can happen in three days no matter how quiet it may seem.

People were afraid. Afraid of what might or never might be. Afraid of being connected. Afraid of being disconnected. But – a lot of connection can be lost but a lot of connection can also be restored in just three days.

People were in despair and void of hope. Despairing over what they had once hoped for because what they had once hoped for now seemed forever gone. But – despair can give birth to hope and hope can give birth to life in just three days.

People feared for their lives, afraid of being put to death for something they once thought would save them. They were unaware of what was happening in those three days.

Three days and the One who gave hope that led to despair had other plans that third day. Plans other than watching three devoted women prepare a body for burial. Three women who were making their way to a tomb that no longer held the One which they sought. Three women who walked quietly. Three women who seemed to have misplaced their hope. Three women who stopped, cheeks wet from fresh fallen tears, to discuss how they were going to move the stone just yards before them. The stone that covered the entrance to the tomb where the body of their beloved laid. The body they had come to prepare for burial.

Fresh tears fell again for though they are ready to prepare the body of the one they love, the three women are unprepared in strength and all their pondering won’t help. They know they cannot move the stone. Still, they step those extra feet, one foot in front of the other, and they approach the tomb.

The stone is not there.

The tomb is open.

As Dr. David Jeremiah said in so many words, have you ever wondered if the stone had not necessarily been opened for the Beloved to walk out of but for us to step into? For us to see that He was not there? For us to see such a miracle for ourselves? The miracle of the empty tomb?

The women listened to the angel who stood waiting at the entrance of the tomb. Three women who had spent their morning walking a quiet, sorrowful journey to do a grievous task. Waiting to give them cause to renew their faith and a reason to dispel their fears.

For three days they had wept. For three days they were lost, alone, and despairing. But then came the third day and instead of finding a body waiting for burial, they found hope anew in an empty tomb. Hope that beckoned them to come, see for themselves that what their Beloved tried to make them understand days, weeks, months earlier – it had now come to pass.

Death could not defeat Him. Hell could not hold Him back. Fear was conquered through faith and despair was laid to waste through death. It was finished.

A lot can happen in just three days.

Why I Wear A Cross


I went into the Fast-Fix jewelry store and had the chain for my gold cross necklace fixed the other day. It’s only taken me a mere 25 years to do it but alas, it is finished. Those were Christ’s words as he hung from the cross, giving up mortality for immortality, death for life, a sin scarred body for the sins of man. Before they tested the color of his blood by the piercing of his flesh, he uttered, “It is finished.”

His work on earth accomplished.

His body removed from the cross and laid to rest.

The sins of man soon to be silenced by his descent into darkness.

His ressurection made known by the glory His return.

Finished.

Everything’s completed. All we had to do was praise Him for his promise kept and to come and yet, instead, we left Him on the cross.

Looking at my necklace as the clerk ran my debit card, I smiled at how it sparkled. Even others, within the first couple days of wearing it again after 25 years, made comments about how pretty and shiny it was. Within days I was back to rubbing it between my fingers every now and again. Not out of habit or unintentionally, as you see some women do, but with intention. Because every now and again throughout the day, I am reminded of the sacrifice Jesus made for me by hanging on a cross. A rugged, splintery, dirty cross that didn’t sparkle and no one called it pretty.

But it was a cross. And as he prepared to hang there, he suffered more than we can ever comprehend…

He suffered the betrayal from those who called him friend and found healing through his hands no less than 24 hours before.

He suffered mocking from those who were serving Rome by persecuting him.

He suffered embarrassment and shame when asked to disrobe prior to his ill-imposed punishment.

He suffered bullying when the soldiers made a crown out of thorns and abrasively shoved it onto his head, causing stinging pain when that crown pierced through his flesh, their laughter echoing up to the halls of heaven.

He suffered searing pain being flogged — struck on his flesh with a whip that tore and peeled his flesh by the sharp metal or bone pieces inserted  into its leather strap — at least forty times.

He suffered exhaustion carrying his cross.

He suffered an agony known of throughout history but suffered by few, as nails were pounded through the dusty and bloodstained flesh of his hands and feet.

He suffered traumatic discomfort as his body, lying upon two weighty lengths of timber, was raised from the ground and with a jolt, causing every scratch, every scrape, every open wound to throb anew.

As the sun beat upon him, He suffered a ‘chronic’ pain as the clothes given back to him, (which would later be gambled upon for ownership), rubbed against his backside.

He suffered abandonment as he cried out, “God, why have you forsaken me?

He suffered ridicule when the guards taunted him with vinegar for water.

He suffered the heat of the day as he took one last breath and uttered, “It is finished.”
It is finished.

No more pain. No more suffering. Then taken down from the cross off suffering, he was laid in a tomb.

It is finished.

Some have argued that Jesus is no longer on the cross so why not “take that cross off from around your neck.” “It’s an idol.'” “It’s superstitious.”

I don’t agree. Yes, He’s gone. To the grave and back and beyond.  But, I don’t idolize the cross and  I’m not superstitious. But I will wear it. Proudly.  I will take it in my hand throughout the day and remember…

He suffered for me.  It was an ill-imposed  punishment because it should have been me on that cross. He was sinless. I am not. He made a way to bring me back into fellowhsip with my heavenly Father. And I wear a gold cross to remind me of just that.