If you refuse to take up your cross and follow me, you are not worthy of being mine.
Matthew 10:38
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Slipping through cold, dark streets, threatened by the ominous shadows, my friend and I searched in the darkness for an apartment number we had memorized when we crossed the border from free Austria into communist regions where Christianity was forbidden.
Finally, we found the right building and climbed dark stairs, walking one step at a time from the tiny flashlight that shown on our feet, and found the door we had been seeking.
"Knock softly three times and they will know they can trust you” was our assignment.
Just as we finished knocking, the door slowly opened.
"He has risen," a small, thin woman said to us as she barely opened the door, just wide enough for us to see her dark eyes.
"He has risen, indeed," we answered as instructed.
A smile, lit from within herself, filled our space and she embraced us warmly and said, "Welcome."
As we tiptoed into the room, we could barely move.
Women filled every inch of space of the tiny, old and life-worn apartment. Five women were squished stuffed on an old couch, with at least 25 others sitting on the floor, stools, the stairs. And all of the sweet ones in the room also smiled and waved silently and bowed their heads in respect towards us.
Cloaked in an worn, plaid blanket was a sort of wobbly throne, made prominent for me so that all could see me when I taught. Their shining. eyes, filled with hope and the joy of being together. pressed a memory in my heart with the fingerprints of God. I knew that some of these had been imprisoned for their faith, others were without husbands, brothers who were serving life sentences for being found with a Bible.
This was an evening I would never forget.
As we opened the Bible and shared the messages we had prepared, the women sat spellbound for 3 straight hours, tears coming down their faces. I whispered of the unchanging love of God, they whispered their stories to me and my friend, so that no one in the other apartments would hear or know we had gathered in Christ’s name. They were so happy to share in the fellowship of love and mutual suffering. Never have I witnessed an audience more starved for God’s words, or thankful for the feast of faith we served them.
Many shared stories of husbands in prison for their faith, or because they taught children the Bible on Sundays and how they had been roughly treated and taken away in the dark of night. And yet, the humble reception and gratitude with which they welcomed us will always stay in my heart, as though some how we were special..
As a young missionary living behind the iron curtain, I was often taken aback by the difficulties of living in a country where Christianity was against the law. And yet, these women and their daughters considered it a privilege to suffer for their faith.
As we come to this Good Friday and the time when we particularly ponder Jesus' death and resurrection, it is a time to remember we are called to a life of sacrifice, to take up our crosses, to follow Him, to die to self--to overcome obstacles, to purpose to be steadfast in the life we have been given, to learn not to complain, to glorify God and to bring His life to our circumstances as an act of faith.
The Christian life is an exchanged life.
We no longer live for ourselves, but for the glory of Jesus, who bought us with a price, that we might live for Him every moment, every day.
I am "the mama," the one who helps right the wrongs, listens to hearts, prays, laughs, gives all of myself, even on a "stormy day" or "stormy season," because it is part of my learned role--to care for those in my charge as Jesus did--even in the midst of the unexpected storms of life like the one we all find ourselves in currently.
This Good Friday, I pray you will know His grace, His love, His help as you join Him by laying your life down. Have a beautiful holy weekend, and a Happy Easter!
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