does he still feel the nails

if you were to walk up those carpeted steps, sliding your hands up the old oak banister, you would turn left and enter my old bedroom. if this were any year  before 2005, you would find my little twin bed pushed up against the wall, a few feet from my sister's. under the rectangular window that faced into the woods and overlooked the swing set.

you'd see a life-sized cardboard cutout of tom cruise from jerry maguire. an old mauve vase with twigs from that big pin oak on the shelf above my bed. five of my favorite books. short, poignant reads like the old man and the sea and of mice and men. the bible. a framed picture from the first family gathering i attended with robert.

if you sat on my bed, flattening the old white comforter lined with pink flowers, you could see our old desk. the one mama and dad lugged up the steps and assembled before i can remember. where i sat and played oregon trail with my very first grade school boyfriend. where my sister still stays up and completes her college assignments.

it's one of those good, solid office depot desks from the mid-nineties. with a million little compartments and drawers that tend to come off their hinges if you pull too hard. inside one of those crevices, i placed a little statue i received in high school.

it's no taller than a coffee mug. just two pieces of hardware intersecting themselves on a wooden platform.

with a caption: "does he still feel the nails, every time i fail?"

taken from an old ray boltz song, the statue reminded me, and still reminds me, of the importance of good friday. of what happened, and how indebted i am.

i love easter weekend, probably more than any other.

because yes, there were nails. but more than the piercing and the beating, there was also love. and i know He still feels that too. above all else.