The Joy of Dying

On Good Friday we all sleep in. After breakfast, I take them for haircuts and we buy new shirts for Easter. We go out for lunch and as I study my full plate, I am wounded. It’s been an upside down Lent with none of my usual disciplines and this full plate on Good Friday feels like betrayal.
The women followed him all the way from Galilee. The Gospel of Luke tells us that when he hung on the cross, the women stood at a distance, watching these things.
They did not let the horror that was taking place before them cause them to avert their eyes. And yet…my eyes shift with the smallest of distractions.
How can I yet forget his love so easily?
When we return home, I need to step away from this world that clutches at my heart and wraps around it like ivy—weaving it blind. We go into the woods and here I can breathe. It’s the silence of the tomb but this quiet works its resurrection. And this is the joy of dying—this expectation of a new birth. 
We wait with bated breath.

With my sandy, the


  1. says

    I, too, am finding the need to die to this self-life, and grieve His death rather than look only to His Resurrection. A place of depth far outweighs the surrounding worldliness. I, too, dive deeply. Thank you for your words, seemingly directed right to me.
    ~ linda

  2. says

    I don’t much like the dying to my self. But the way too much “living” makes “life get in the way” of time for quiet, holy reflection, I don’t like that much either. So good today to have some stillness, to ponder the Christ and savor the indescribable gift of His unfailing, totally self-sacrificing Love. Beyond this, speechless.

  3. says

    Waiting. Dying with you, beautiful sister. “…the joy of dying – this expectation of new birth.” It’s what we hold onto…what swells our hearts with hope. Thank you for this, Laura. You are a gift. It’s a privilege to walk through this valley of death with you. Love, Patricia

  4. says

    I had one of those days on Maundy Thursday. Wrote about it on Friday. And now I am waiting with bated breath with you. I know we will both be lifting our voices in joyful adoration tomorrow. Love you friend. Happy Easter!

  5. says

    Oh Laura. I felt this way, too. I died this week in some ways as I was taking care of my father who took a nasty fall that led to a brain bleed and fractured orbit. He doesn’t remember the fall, but it’s likely he was distracted by something and stumbled. That’s what happens when we avert our eyes.

    P.S. I love that you call me “my sandy.” 🙂

  6. says

    Laura, this Lent has been the first time in years that I have fasted–at least for most of it. I always wondered why that during the years when I fasted, Easter tasted so much sweeter. And it wasn’t just in the Easter basket.
    It was in the dying to self for those weeks that produced that Resurrection experience on Easter Sunday.
    Thank you for shedding a light on this. I’ve also discovered that the more years I let slip by without fasting from some thing to eat, the harder it became for me to practice the self control to do it again.
    What a blessing!
    Love you friend. And thank you for your prayers. They are still much needed.

  7. says

    oh, beautiful! as the days led closer and closer, i began to feel a withdrawing….its so hard to look Him full in the face in his death…so hard but so necessary for our growth, our resurrection life.

  8. says

    Thank you for your comment on my blog, Laura. That brought a big smile to my face!

    This year, Easter meant something entirely different to me. In the past it was special because it was a day to be spent with family…the day that we baptized each of our children. This year, it hit me like a ton of bricks. It was the one month anniversary of losing our 3rd child. This year…I finally got what Easter really means.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *