Yeah, it was a good Friday. A Friday so good, I stopped writing the blog I’ve been planning all week to record it immediately and present it to you.
Yesterday, I stared into the face of God.
We spent the day in downtown Lilongwe, dancing and singing in a Good Friday parade that meandered through town. Around six hundred people walked together, carrying crosses, waving tree branches, and blowing whistles, proclaiming the goodness of Jesus’ sacrifice.
Most Good Friday’s that I’ve experienced have been somber affairs at church just after dusk. This was a party in broad daylight—a proclamation that God is good.
Sun burnt and exhausted, but with a heart full, we made our way back home. The minibus we took home seemed especially slow, as downtown gave way to town, gave way to open field, gave way to a the stop by the sunflower farm. I almost fell asleep on the last two kilometers walk through the maize fields, but soon we were home.
And soon, we realized the power was out.
No problem. We’d been surviving well under the moon’s watchful eyes and our trusty headlamps. Besides, the electricity usually returns before too long.
So we went about the afternoon’s chores, prepared for dinner, and while sitting by the fire watching Rashidat turn over chicken, I hear Walker say, in calm reverence, “Guys, you gotta come see these stars,” as he and Josh Owen stand in the darkness, necks bent back as far as they will go.
Bliz jumps up and runs immediately out, her mouth opening wide at the sky. I wipe my hands on my short, snap my headlamp off, and step into the darkness with my friends.
Before me the dusty band of the Milky Way, accompanied by millions of glittering stars, hung in space. More stars than I’ve ever seen in my life, all winking from millions of miles away, meandered in their own parade proclaiming God. Pictures have not yet captured the true beauty of the cosmos as I saw them then.
I had two immediate thoughts; One, I am the smallest being. Two, despite my smallness, my Creator used the same star stuff out there to knit me together.
No moon, no lights—not here, not in town, and probably not even in downtown for the sky to be so incredibly clear— and I am able to see that which lies before me every night but is usually shrouded from view.
We all stare side by side, awed into silence by wonder. I blink and suddenly it’s gone, and there’s a blinding light out of my peripheral, and the electricity is back on. One moment, I spun and marveled through space and the next, I am standing on a dirt path next to my friends staring at a few scant scattered stars.
Despair. It tore through my heart at having tasted beauty only to have it snatched away so abruptly. I saw past the veil for the first time; I now knew what truly lies out there in the darkness. My heart ached at the thought of settling for the few lights I have grown accustomed to seeing nightly when so much more dances out there.
I drop my head and glance at Walker, and at Bliz, and at Josh—Josh, who is barefoot and running out into the maize field, away from our lights, seeking to recapture the beauty we found. I followed without thinking, and I hear Bliz and Walker behind me.
There we were, four star chasers, barefoot, soot faced, running toward beautiful, glorious, mystery.
We got far and managed to see maybe half of the stars we found before—but it was enough. I knew as I ran through the maize that I was chasing the face of God. I saw His majesty and might, His creative power, His vastness. His Being that is always out there—Just sometimes I allow blindingly close things shroud Him from my view.
I stood and prayed in my heart, magnifying God. And I whispered to myself, “there will be time”—my self-reminder of all the life I have to live still and all the wonders my eyes will still behold.
And when we came back in, wild, we ate dinner, trying our hardest to explain to the half of us who did not star chase exactly what it felt like.
Later that night, around that same rickety wood table, we broke the bread and drank the juice—and I chased the face of God again. This time, His humanness, His pain and sacrifice, His unfathomable love. The coarse brown bread dipped in the bendy straw grape juice box is still a mystery to me, but one I am willing to accept.
I eat. I partake in the never ending banquet, remembering His love.
In reflection, so much of this night encapsulates my World Race experience. We chased stars, remembered sacrifice, and sought the face of God together. And being away from the blinding lights— most of which are good beyond belief, but blinders regardless— that are my day to day life back in Keller, Texas, USA, allows me to see beyond the veil into the mysterious deepness of God.
We run and run and run, not away from home or jobs or relationships, but toward God—always toward God, always side by side.
And while we can chase the stars all night but never actually catch one, we can always come back, sit at the table, together, and capture our salvation. Jesus made it so there’s always a place for us, always an attainable side of an unfathomable God. A cornerstone uniting us all with the only Truth I know.
To run this Race, you need to be a star chaser, a God chaser, willing to chase but also to rest knowing that seeking Him doesn’t mean unattainability, but, rather, opening your hands wide, staring into the face of God, and humbly accepting with a, “Yes, please.”
From the cosmos to the bread, I traveled from deep mystery to deep mystery. A good Friday, indeed.
