A New Perspective of the Cross

WARNING- CONTAINS GRAPHIC DETAILS OF MURDER

I have always been a thinker but I’m so tired of thinking. I keep waiting for the thoughts to break and my mind to slow down- to rest. But my wishes have not yet been granted. I know this is part of the process but the process is driving me mad. I can stomach and even psych myself into believing everything is better for periods but nothing that persists. It is so tiring and I cannot force the thoughts out of my mind. Whereas the nightmares have subsided the flashbacks are strong. It is baffling how many words, events, gestures, etc. remind me of this awful tragedy. This weekend, Easter, has become a difficult holiday for me this year. Not that this is the first Easter without my dad and grandmother but how eerily similar the crucifixion story is to my dad’s death.

Each time I think about the suffering of Jesus and his death on the cross I think of my dad. I guess the brutality of my dad’s murder has given me a new perspective of Jesus’ death. As I think about my savior willingly submitting to the lashes and malicious beatings before carrying his cross to Golgatha, I am driven to the pooled and splattered blood of my father. I cannot get past the scene as I first saw it- the pools of blood so thick that I could see it ripple as the wind blew and swirled it around, the splattered blood across the hood of the car and garage wall, the blood dripping down the fence were my dad’s last breathes were likely taken. I remember seeing my dad’s glasses crushed under my grandmother’s car which likely were a product of the first blow that my father received… a crowbar to the head. I can picture my dad laying there pouring blood onto the garage floor trying to manage another move. At some point he possibly tried running across the backyard to escape through the back gate. Midway he lost one of his shoes and was hemmed in by the perpetrators. Over the next period of time my father was beaten to death. Blood was everywhere. It covered a section of the fence and pools gathered in the grass so much so that they were unable to be completely absorbed by the ground. It was likely at this location where the murderers using the crowbar and cinderblocks literally beat my dad to death. As I think about this event I am sickened. My stomach knots up, I fight the urge to weep, I fight the urge to be angry, and I try to figure out how to trust God more sincerely. I wonder what Jesus’ family, friends, followers, and mere acquaintances were thinking as they watched the Romans beat out the very lifeblood of God incarnate.

I wonder about the trauma that his disciples or even Simon the Cyrene may have faced being part of this excruciatingly difficult time. I remember getting the phone call suggesting that “something” happened to my dad. My wife and I were in Wal-Mart trying to find the shortest check-out line. I answered my phone and as a result my life will never be the same. I panicked and began trying to get in touch with any law enforcement that could give me answers. It seemed that no one knew anything other than the fact that my dad was likely deceased. Lauren and I booked the first flight out of town and rushed to my grandparent’s home- the scene. Although the blood was still pooled and wet, I morphed into a caretaker role trying to protect my grandfather as opposed to dealing with my dad. I remember trying to jump over the puddle of blood to reach my granddad but being unable and leaving my footprints of my dad’s blood all the way to the back door. I tried to be the strong caretaker who could provide for and console my granddad. He was in such shock that he could only repeat phrases such as “your daddy is dead” or “my boy is gone forever.” At this time all we knew was that something brutal happened, some money was stolen, my grandad’s truck was missing, and so was my dad.

When I had the opportunity to walk back outside I was mortified by the footprints I had left as I trudged through my father’s blood. I looked at the puddles that were so thick I could almost see a reflection in the rippling sea of red. Soon thereafter, a clean-up crew began washing away the pools of blood and the splattered spots across the walls, car, and fence. I remember feeling like all I had of my father was being washed away. The spray of the water-hose diluted the blood-drenched concrete and washed away the only piece I had of my dad. I wonder if this is how Jesus’ followers felt as they watched their Savior’s blood cleaned out of the courtyard or mixed with the dust as he trudged up to the mount where he was going to be crucified.

Jesus was beaten so badly that he could not continue to carry his cross up to Golgotha. My dad was beaten so severely that the murderers actually put him in the passenger side of his father’s truck with his head on the floorboard and dumped him off the side of a dirt road about twenty miles from his home, then took the truck to another location and set it on fire.

Were Jesus met his death on a cross with a spear in his side, my dad had his final resting place about fifteen feet off a dirt road where he received two bullet holes in his back and two weeks for bugs, birds, and other scavengers to feast on his flesh. Whereas my dad’s body was not seen again for about two weeks, Jesus’ was seen again three days later and he was alive from the grave. So, even though this Easter weekend reminds me of the tragedy of my father’s murder it also provides me with the hope of his resurrection from the grave because of the work of Jesus on his behalf. “Oh death where is your victory, oh death where is your sting.” Death has been defeated and consequently my father is sitting face to face with his Savior and King. He is no longer hurting or struggling with his sin, he is alive in glory. Hallelujah!

Nevertheless, my struggle continues. My struggle has been multifaceted and continues to take new forms. I feel like the process thus far could be described as an onion as it seems to come in layers. First, I was the strong and tough caregiver helping to stabilize the rest of my family. Rather quickly, I fell from strong to weak as I questioned everything including my own faith. The questioning of my faith resulted from being “encouraged” that I needed to show others who do not know Christ the peace that he provides for believers. Well, unfortunately I did not feel a peace of any kind. Although I trusted that God was there and knew that he would ultimately receive glory through this tragedy, I could not even fake peace. I deducted that if I did not have a peace that surpasses understanding then maybe I was not a believer after all. This layer of skepticism and fear drove me to anxiety and panic attacks. The next layer was akin to being numb. I found out my dad was likely murdered but didn’t know where his body was, two weeks later we find his body, the day before my dad’s body was found I forced my granddad to undergo psychological testing which led to him cutting me out of his family, and two weeks after this my grandmother (dad’s mom) passed away. I got to a point where I could not feel anything. I was truly at the end of my rope and could not get sadder or even the slightest bit happy. The numb layer seems to have been the layer that made me feel the craziest. Next, was the layer of emotional vulnerability and escalation. I describe myself as hormonal and pregnant, I never know when I am going to cry, get angry, or elated. And all of these emotions are at escalated proportions. I am not sure what the next layer of the onion will feel like but I expect it to be tough.

Although this is the worst thing that I have ever faced, God has been teaching me quite a bit. Even though my level of motivation and my ability to concentrate are minimal, I know that God is with me and understands exactly where I am. Even though I have spent little time in his word and in prayer, I feel closer to him than ever before. His grace continues to be poured out as I recognize my dependence on him alone. God has definitely showed me that my sanctification is in his hands and I must completely count on his work to be completed in me. In the past, I have always “depended on God” in the sense that I trusted my God given talents and abilities to discern and make decisions, but for the first time I am unable to discern or even understand the decisions that I am faced with, and must depend on him to lead and direct my steps. Dependence on someone other than myself is scary but I have come to recognize that it is freeing and it allows me to rest in the grace of my Lord. God has allowed me to have a minute glimpse into what the death of Christ was like by being surrounded by these unfortunate occurrences. I praise him for a glimpse of the cross that I have never seen before.