I woke up at 4:30 am this morning and knew my bladder wouldn’t last past sunrise, so I rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom in the dark. A second later, I cried out in pain as my head smacked into the wall. “OWWWW!” I screamed, and The Husband jumped out of bed, enveloping me with arms and the admission that he had done the same thing a few weeks ago. Of course, I hadn’t woken up then because he had sucked it up and kept quiet. But that’s not my style–silent endurance. I made a scene, and I hobbled to the bathroom, sniffling.

One more second later, and I rammed my big toe into the bathroom door. The Husband, back in bed, popped right back up as I screamed “WHY?!” and literally collapsed onto the toilet in cascades of self-pitying tears.

To his credit, TH waited until this morning to make fun of my clumsiness and outrage. To mine, I lay awake for awhile considering both.

The fact remains that whenever something disagreeable is thrown across my path, my first response is to feel cheated. Conspired against. Duped. Under the covers, considering gratitude in all circumstances, I finally whispered, grudgingly, “Thank you that I don’t have a broken nose.” But the bigger part of me lamented my aching head and pounding toe. And deep down in the trenches of my soul where grace daily takes up arms against evil, I felt the pull of the lie telling me that God was laughing at me. And I realized that were this a Saturday morning two thousand years ago, I’d be kidding myself to think that the worst I would have been was a doubting disciple headed for egg on my face. Or even a hypocritical Pharisee headed for exposure.

I would be Judas, and  I would be hanging.

During our Good Friday service last night, I struggled with the words I heard–that if we had been there, there’s a part of each of us that would have sent him to the cross ourselves, that would have participated in the mockery and rage, that would have yelled, “Crucify him!” with everyone else. But in my heart I know that’s a best-case scenario, because there’s also a part of me that would have been counting the new silver coins in my bag and remembering my kiss of betrayal.

So I wake up the Saturday after Good Friday, two thousand years later, thankful that I wasn’t there then. Until I think of my own life and all the times it declares “He’s not here” instead of “He’s coming back.” And that’s when the gratitude arrives: knowing that all my endless betrayals were consumed on that day by a love so big, so unfathomable, that it takes eternity to play itself out. Love great enough to drink full the cup of wrath, the response to the sin of the world (of which mine is a considerable part) and consume it rather than be consumed. And I know that facing my darkness is not merely self-deprecatory or, more seriously, self-abuse. It is emotional integrity that allows me to see the depths of which I am capable and not despair, because there is something greater–love. And it wins. 

Love answers the why. Love turned The Day After into The Day Before.