The Cross Near the Woods

We've got a cross on the border of the woods. Steve made it for a Maundy Thursday presentation a couple years back. It's as rustic as can be, two sticks notched in the middle and wired together.

When the Maundy Thursday presentation was past, I couldn't bear to take it apart and toss it back to the woods. I hung it in my favorite sitting place, and too often pass by without even noticing. It blends in well, you see.

This morning I was depositing a Savvy-job over the wall when I did notice. I sat, wanting silence. The mind whirs and bucks, impossible to nail even on the smallest of crosses. The birds shouted and sang and squeaked, a symphony that finally brought me to silence, thank you, Jesus.

So I sat. Pooper scooper at my feet. Considering the cross.

Thinking how big one would have to be to hold a man. "Hung on a tree" isn't simply an Old Testament prophecy. Looking at my meager cross, a poor representation of what the real thing had to be to hold a man.

To hold a man. To kill a man.

How do I dare approach anything bigger than my Maundy Thursday cross? Even this one made of sticks has its own majesty, in an undying image of an undying man.

So I will sit. Pooper scooper at my feet.