Dear Fourteen-Year-Old Me

I’ve been reading through my old journals, and I want to tell myself a few things:

Dear fourteen-year-old me,

You don't know me yet, since I won't exist for ten more years. To me, those ten years feel like a lifetime. 

You might not recognize me right away; I've changed considerably. In fact, you’re probably horrified by the person I’ve become. You probably see me as shockingly liberal, though perhaps moderate-conservative would be a better descriptor. You no doubt think I'll be a bad influence on you, but rest assured - I don't think I've permanently damaged anybody by influencing them.

The truth is that as I’ve grown up, I’ve opened my heart and my mind to the Bible and closed them to the extra stuff that’s so important to you. You're still so very young, and you know nothing more than the small, narrow world around you.

Oh, I’ve offended you; that wasn’t my intention. I still haven’t outgrown my bluntness, I’m afraid.

However, my point still stands: you don’t know as much as you think you know. It's true that you're a compulsive researcher; and it’s good that you're willing to seek out opposite viewpoints to the ones you hold. That will challenge your mind like very little else will. You just don't realize that there are opinions and facts out there that never come up in your little world of rigid, two-dimensional morality.

In your view, everything is sure and certain; everything has a moral edge so sharp you could cut your finger on it. That’s not how it works. There isn’t a dichotomy of good and evil; good is still good and evil is still evil, but there are myriads of ways they can overlap. Just because something isn't wrong doesn't make it right. Just because something isn't ideal doesn't make it bad. The right thing with faulty justification might still cause heartache. The right argument with the wrong motive will still push people away. The wrong belief for a good reason doesn't make it right. The decision you honestly thought was right turning out to be wrong because you didn’t have all the facts doesn't mean you sinned. There is more to righteousness than rules.

Your opinions on some things will change entirely. That’s a good thing, too. Time has a curious way of uncovering different facets of an issue. For instance, your insistence on never owning an iPod because it is inherently sinful will age rather badly in the future. Your belief that the King James Bible is the only one that’s not part of some demonic agenda will fare badly, too, as you do your research. So will your conviction that any music other than hymns is of the Devil. 

Your judgment of morality based on appearances will transform as well, as you find out that Godliness has more to do with the heart than with unyielding behavioral rules, and modesty has more to do with an attitude than clothes. You’ll meet people who are more modest in short shorts than others are in those dreadful things you call culottes*.

These are some superficial examples. The main thing that I want to say to you, dear little fourteen-year-old me, is that changing doesn’t mean you’re falling away from the faith. Oh, no! You’re finding your faith, faith in a God who loves this broken world like he loves you – with all he is. Find a different translation of the Bible, and read through it. Let God be God, and don’t try to explain away the uncomfortable facets of his nature. Find comfort in an uncomfortable God, who doesn’t have to conform to your ideas of what a god should be to still be God.

Read through the Mosaic Law and get a firmer understanding of the love and care underlying every interaction God has with his people - better than you’ve ever gotten from your narrow reading of the Gospels - and start from there. Throw out the old, legalistic teaching (as much as you can) and find what the text says. Get the historical background for it all. It will help.

You will not lose your faith, I promise you. Instead, you will rediscover the God you have faith in. And he is a good God, never fear. He is a far greater God than you ever realized. He is a more loving God than you ever knew. He is terrible in his goodness, wise in his anger, and right in his love. He is an active God, not withholding his love from those you see as unlikely and unlovely candidates, for you were – and I am still – unlikely and unlovely as well. He is an unrelenting, unstoppable God. He is the God who the world desperately needs.

The God you think you know resembles him, to be sure, but He is infinitely better.

This is what I want to tell you, little me.

That you’re wrong, about so many things, and only time can show you that. 

That you're right, about so many things, but you lack the compassion and gentleness to make a difference with it.

That the world is less scary than you know, and far more broken than you can ever guess. That it's your part to go out into it and do something about that.

That tolerance doesn't have to mean acceptance and approbation. It can mean the knowledge that with that person's background and circumstances, your life and choices would be no different, because you are no different from them without the mercy of Christ.

That the 'goodness of God leads to repentance' not because, as you think, it might guilt people into acknowledging him, but because thankfulness and gratitude to a good God might lead to wanting to know him.

That you’ll keep on changing, that you’ll keep on stumbling forward the best you can, that life is good outside your bubble. 

That you, and I, have so much more to learn, and good people to learn it with.


Sincerely,


Your future self

*Also, if a reader has managed to avoid experience with the specific type of culottes I mean, here's a photo:

(Also, think about it, Little Me: if you’re climbing a tree, are culottes - long, flowing, to the ground, and VERY wide at the bottom - or pants more modest? “Culottes!” you say, and I don’t say anything, because I have the benefit of knowing that someday you will change your mind. It will take years, and traveling to a different country, but it will happen.)

Of Tea Breaks and Driving

A while back, I had made the decision to get our car close to our hotel, because "it would save us an hour of travel to Heathrow to pick it up, and I have detailed directions to get out of London."

Yeah, right. Never do that.

When we actually got to London, we decided that it would be awesome to leave our luggage at the hotel, pick up the car, drive back to our hotel, have breakfast, check out, get our stuff in the car, and then leave London.

Again, never do that.

All went well until we left the parking garage to return to our hotel. It would have been fine, even then, had the way back to our hotel not been one-way streets all pointing in the wrong direction. But they were one-way streets, and so we had to go round the other way. This also would have been fine, had we not somehow ended up in the other direction of where we wanted to go.

And if the check-engine light had not gone on.

So, there we were, at the mercy of traffic lights and one-way streets, still getting used to the fact that right was our left and left was our right. An hour later, after much effort and several arguments, we arrived back at the car hire place, explained the situation, and exchanged our Ford Focus - which Joy was terrified of hurting or crashing - for a Mercedes Benz. Oh, if that isn't irony, I don't know what is.

At this point, I called our hotel using Budget's phone, explained the situation, and begged about half an hour's leniency on checking out. Silly me, I figured that an hour and a half would be plenty of time to return to our hotel (which was still only three blocks away), especially since the nice lady at the desk had given me directions and marked it on our map.

Well, it wasn't enough time. We tried our hardest to get out of that awful city, but nothing would work. Finally we just turned down a little street and parked in the "you will be towed if you do not have a permit" area. Then I got out, looked around, spotted two men in a doorway, and went to ask for directions.

They were deep in conversation, but as I approached (saying, of course, how terribly sorry I was to trouble them, but might I bother them for a bit of directions?), they stopped talking and the one left in his car. How I envied the easy way he drove off! But the other looked at my map, turned it every which way until he figured out where we were, and said,

"You just need to go straight from here. Straight, straight, straight. You don't turn left; you don't turn right. Just straight, straight, straight." (Sounds like the Christian life!) While I was processing this startling bit of information, he said, "I'm going that way anyway. You follow me."

What were the odds? Well, our doors locked, and we could always just gun the engine and get out of whatever trap he led us into. So, with not a whole lot of trepidation - we were far too tired for that - we followed him. He brought us very close to the hotel, waved us on - "Straight, straight, straight!" - and we never saw him or his van again.

We parked a little ways from our hotel - Joy absolutely refused to go any farther, which made me unreasonably miffed. My mom and I went to collect our bags and check out. The guy at the front desk was glad to hear that we no longer had car trouble, but he was horrified to hear that we were still actually driving.

Well, what else could we do? We didn't want to rely on trains, especially with the threat of a national railway strike.

It took a bit for us to actually leave London. The roads were dreadfully narrow, and absolutely everyone drove like maniacs. Motorcycles especially tended to think that no rules applied to them. But we didn't get horribly turned around anymore, and we successfully left London behind us. We left our schedule two hours behind us, too, but it didn't really matter at this point.

After Joy had been driving for about four hours straight, almost ending up at Heathrow due to a confusing construction configuration, our car told us to take a tea break.

That's right; our car had a screen pop up. It even had a little picture of a steaming cup of tea.

Our car was a bit more commanding than this one.

At that point, we knew full well that we were in England.

We stopped by Stonehenge on the way to Bath. By this, of course, I mean that we were in stop-and-go traffic by Stonehenge on the way to Bath, and had an excellent view of an overappreciated tourist attraction. (By the way, I understand and support the need for conservation. But so many people know about Stonehenge, and I prefer to support conservation on a less-known place. Compare the amount of people at Stonehenge with the amount of people at Castlerigg Stone Circle, and you'll see why we went to the one and not to the other.)


We had to skip Nether Wallop, a little town we'd planned on seeing, but that didn't matter. After all, we were driving through some of the prettiest little towns I've ever seen. Joy, it is true, didn't like the sharp turns or the steep hills or any of the myriads of roundabouts (traffic circles) that we encountered on our way to Bath, but even she was able to see and enjoy some of the towns.

 

We arrived at Bath at about 4:00, thinking that everything closed at 5. Lo and behold, they were open until 9 pm. So we didn't have to worry about taking too long. I still wanted to get to Oxford, but we managed to enjoy Bath plenty. When my mom went to England, technology was non-existent and all the various interactive displays were not there. So she really enjoyed seeing all the reconstructions. I, myself, just enjoyed all the history. I had already read everything I could about Rome in sixth grade, I think, so I knew well how the baths worked.


We tasted the water, of course, and were just as unimpressed as I thought we would be, but in the opposite direction. It was not even nasty; it just tasted like lukewarm Chicago tap water. (Maybe we could set up a spa in our back yard and convince everyone that it's the fountain of youth...)



We peeked into the famed Pump Room of Jane Austen and Amazing Grace.

 

 And then we left for Oxford. Regrettably, we did get a bit turned around and lost about 45 minutes, but we still arrived in Oxford only a couple blocks from where I meant to be: the Martyrs' Memorial. We parked right across the street from the Eagle and Child, the pub which the Inklings, including C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien called "the Bird and Baby." We threaded our way through the bar crowd to take a look at the Rabbit Room, where the Inklings met.

Martyr's Memorial looks much like a sunken church spire - the stuff of Oxford legend, in fact. It honors Hugh Latimer, Nicholas Ridley, and Thomas Cranmer, martyrs of the Inquisition. These three men were burnt to death in 1555 for refusing to believe and practice "the errors of the church of Rome." They were put to death near the spot of Martyrs' Memorial by Bloody Mary.



All in all, we saw everything we really wanted to see in Oxford, though we didn't get all the time we would have wanted to spend.


And then we got to find our way to our hotel for the night. It was a little country place, called the Brasenose Arms, located in Cropredy, a small town near Banbury. We had thought we'd be able to see the statue of the fine lady upon the white horse that's mentioned in the child's nursery rhyme, but we weren't able to.

Ride a cock horse to Banbury cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.

A strange thing to put on an itinerary, to be sure, but we thought that since we were in the area anyway, we might as well try.

We arrived at the Brasenose Arms 13 minutes past check-in time. I had asked for late check-in, in the event that anything happened and we needed to use it. But the place was dark and no one was up. We knocked on the door in vain. No one seemed to be there.

I broke down crying. It had been a very long day, and I had been looking forward to staying at one of the six rooms in the little country inn for quite some time. I had paid for it, planned for it, and set my heart on it. Joy suggested that we sleep in the car, which I did not want to do. But there was nothing for it, and after knocking once again, we turned toward the car.

Unbeknownst to me, my mom was reminding God that anything that happened must be for our good and His glory. Joy was reminding Him that He had always come through for us before, and she didn't see why He wasn't now. But I was struggling with trusting Him at all, and finally I just told God that I trusted Him to make a way for us before I got to the car. I then walked toward it.

"Hello?" we heard from the back of the hotel. It was the owners, key in hand, ready to let us in. They gave us our room, ensured that we were fine with it, and left us to settle in.

I broke down crying yet again. Mercy isn't always seen in such a short amount of time, but this time it was, and I was very grateful.

Morality in Photos

It's an interesting thing that I've noticed about England: photography isn't allowed in churches or chapels. Photography might be considered fine in most other places, or even the rest of the building, including Hampton Court Palace, the Tower of London, the Roman Baths, or ancient stone circles.

The reason given on the signs in front of these churches and chapels is that these places are places of worship. They're not just considered pretty places utterly devoid of any real value. There are signs to say, "This is a place of worship. Please do not use cameras or electronics here."

There are plaques, memorials, signs, churches everywhere. Regardless of what it is, the name of Jesus, while maybe not put on much anymore, is just kept there if it's already there. Church history and English history are inextricably intertwined, and it seems that the majority of the lay population is perfectly contented to leave it that way.

I think that it's mainly a symbolic gesture, more than any real devotion, but it's still an interesting contrast from what we see in America.

Journey to Grace

I can't vouch for the universality of this statement, nor can I claim to have fleshed out all of the whys and wherefores of it, but I'll throw it out there anyway.

During my research on language policy in Illinois, and after seeing how much language is tied into immigration, I have decided this:

We can never be better than our worst opinion of another. 

I've come across websites so filled with hatred that I had to wonder whether they were real; sadly, they were. My question is, how can anyone claim to be better than another, if they believe that the "other" is (to put it mildly) sub-human and disgusting?

I firmly believe that anyone who believes that someone is less valuable than they themselves are, whether due to popularity, station, ethnicity, or anything else, has proved that they themselves are really beneath the people they are against.

Am I guilty of prejudice? Certainly, at times. However, the grace of God has taught me that no matter how wonderful I think I am, I am still unworthy of grace. That's why it's grace; that's why we have no right to withhold it from others.

Mercy in the Mundane

I fully intended to write a post about yesterday – yesterday. And I fully intended to write a post about today – today. But it looks like yesterday’s post will be written today, and today’s post will be written tomorrow. 

Yesterday was a day full of God’s guidance and provision. Sometimes guidance is best seen in the little things – those things that come to fruition in a short amount of time, and there isn’t much opportunity to wonder why things happened the way they did. That doesn’t mean that little things have more guidance; it just means it’s more obvious. 

Little things happened all day yesterday. First, we woke up late – which never happens, especially out here where everything is two hours earlier than we’re used to. We had been planning on visiting the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, but 3 hours one-way seemed a little bit much. (Even for overambitious souls like ourselves.) So we decided to stay in the Grand Canyon National Park area for the day.

Secondly, we decided to take the free shuttle bus to different lookout points farther out on the south rim. This bus line had been closed when we tried to get on it for the past few days, due to nearby lightening storms. But yesterday it was open, so naturally we visited all nine points.

Thirdly, around the third-to-last point, I started feeling sick. I don’t do well in intense light or high heat, so I was feeling faint. I had black spots encroaching on the corners of my field of vision. I had to get back on the bus right away and head back.

Fourthly, I felt better after we got on the bus, so we saw the remaining two points. When I started feeling weird again, we left.

And then everything became apparent. There were nasty lightening storms where we would have been had we gone with our original plan. So they closed and evacuated the entire West Rim, which we had just been seeing. My sickness let us see absolutely everything we wanted to, before it got dangerous to be out there.

Then it rained. It was the first big rain of the monsoon season, complete with fantastic lightening and even more impressive thunder. And we were safe, all because we had woken up a little late, and I had felt sick.

It doesn’t sound so wonderful when it’s typed out in cold, black-and-white letters, but we nonetheless saw the kindness of God very clearly yesterday, in the little things. In uncomfortable situations. In the orchestration of a day so perfect we could never have planned it that way ourselves.

Helicopters and Sunsets

There is simply nothing like a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. We went on one yesterday - our first helicopter ride ever. It made the Canyon come alive and become 3D. Before that, it looked so much like a painting or real-life photoshop that it was unnerving. (Incidentally, I think that's why people don't mind getting so sickeningly close to the edge: it just doesn't seem real that there's a 4,000 ft. drop beneath them. My mom says that it's a case of "shinny, shinny, shinny, shinny, bump, bump, bump, splat.")

We took off from the Grand Canyon Heliport, flying over Kaibab National Forest on our way to the canyon. A few minutes into the ride, the canyon became just visible over the trees before suddenly unfolding before us in all its glory. We swooped over the South Rim and over the mighty Colorado River, which looked like a shining green ribbon.

Flying over the canyon, we saw many different formations, most of which we hadn't been able to see previously. We saw the confluence of the Colorado and Little Colorado Rivers. The Little Colorado is the bright turquoise.

Then, we flew over the North Rim, seeing how much greener it was than the South Rim. There was a clearing where we could have seen wild buffalo, had they chosen to show themselves. But they didn't.

Finally, we flew right over our hotel, and back to the airfield. It was a wonderful experience, and I highly recommend it for anyone wanting to really experience the canyon. I'll check back in tomorrow and let you know if a rafting/kayak tour is a must as well, or if it's not absolutely necessary.





I wasn't feeling too good after the helicopter ride, and, interestingly enough, it wasn't motion sickness that did me in; it was too much heat the day before. But it turned out for the best, anyway: since we were all tired and took a nap, we could stay out to watch the sunset. It wasn't spectacular, and it wasn't what we thought it would be. However, it was also over the Grand Canyon, so who are we to complain? It was great.

Joy said something interesting yesterday. She compared Solomon's temple to the Grand Canyon. Keep in mind that Solomon's temple was only about 111,650 cubic feet, but a rough estimate of the Grand Canyon is around 386,115,840,000,000 cubic feet. That means it's roughly 3,458,269,950 times larger than Solomon's temple. And then she referenced this verse:

"Thus says the LORD: “Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool; what is the house that you would build for me, and what is the place of my rest?" Isaiah 66:1.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!” Isaiah 6:3.

"grandness" vs. "Grandness"

We went to the Grand Canyon today. For the longest time, it seemed like we were nowhere special - just following a plain paved trail in the middle of a dry and fairly mundane desert forest. (It's mundane because if you've seen nine square feet of this desert forest, you've seen every other square foot of it on earth.)



And then, ahead of us, we saw a wall of rock, and a gorge opened up ahead.

 Let me tell you this: pictures just don't do it justice. It really is grand.

Typical "Foolhardy Person"

The National Park Service says to stay at least 6 feet from the edge at all times. I have no problems with that, being as terrified as I am of heights. (It's a useful fear to have, so I think I'll work on reducing it without removing it entirely.) But other foolhardy souls seem to delight in getting as close to (or beyond) the edge as possible. It's a horrible feeling to see a human being precariously close to a plunging gorge. My stomach did weird flips the entire time anyone stood more than 1 foot from the edge.We knew that it's instinctive to grab at anyone falling, and we didn't want to be taken with someone if they did fall, so - outstanding humanitarians that we are - we hightailed it to a different part of the area as soon as anyone got too close.

And I realized that that is exactly the feeling I get when I know that someone is willingly, knowingly, and actively pursuing the drop into Hell. However, in that case I do what I can to bring them back, or at least I try.

There is simply nothing like bigness to impress upon your mind the awesomeness of God. The sheer size of the canyon is overwhelming, but to realize that the Being that created it is so big that He's sizeless is something Grand indeed.

Home

Home.

It’s a funny word, made up of less than five letters but encompassing so much. 

It means family, hugs, and kisses. It means a balloon that says “WELCOME HOME!” (which was supposed to make my sister more visible but ended up being the last thing I noticed). 

It means my own bed, and sleeping in all the way until 8 o’clock in the morning.

It means a can of real American spaghetti sauce. It means eating a real apple for the first time since I left this place nine weeks ago.

It means my church family and more minute-long hugs than I’ve ever had there before in my life. It means people who have followed my journey on Facebook because it was practically the only way to.

It also means 19° Fahrenheit, but I don’t care because my family is here.

It’s not my comfort zone anymore, but it’s comforting. It’s somewhere where I can make my own fun without having to spontaneously plan it ahead of time. A place where I can play my own piano (finally!) and squeak out a couple melodies on my own violin. (Squeak is the right word.)

A place where I am finally needed.

Home. It’s a wonderful place.

Preconceived Notions Part 2

There were some things I was expecting when I came to Ecuador.

I was expecting to find Ecuadorian young people just as impervious to the things of God as their American counterparts. I was positive that I would enjoy my time here. I was sure that I would be ripped off in the markets. I was planning on getting sick. I was almost certain that the toilet would not flush the opposite direction; simply because I am a Beckett and cool things like that just don’t work for me. I was expecting to get burned when I went to the beach for Carnaval.

I was right on all counts. And being right definitely doesn't always make me happy.

Out of all those preconceived notions, it doesn't really matter that there isn't peanut butter or cheddar cheese readily available. It doesn't matter that showers are only hot for the first three minutes. It doesn't really matter that I've been gypped in markets, or that I've gotten sick. Or that I’m about the same color as a lobster, complete with oozing blisters on my arms.

What does matter is that first right expectation: that Ecuadorian young people can be just as godless as Americans. It’s not really a case of just being Americanized; this is a world-wide phenomenon, at least in developed/developing countries.

And it’s so sad.

One Month

According to the calendar, I have been in Ecuador for 4 weeks. (That first Saturday didn't count for me, since I showed up in Quito at 11 PM.) I've learned and experienced so much in this extremely long and extremely short month that I doubt I can put it all into one blog post. Nevertheless, I shall try.

I've learned that weather is unpredictable. There is no snow in Ecuador, but rain, hail, sunshine, clouds, wind, heat, cold, and drizzle can all happen within a few hours. Clouds do not always mean rain, and sunshine does not mean it's not currently raining. So it's a good idea to bring my ridiculous green poncho everywhere I go, able to transform myself at will into a walking tent.

I've learned that traffic is a game. Since the car and the pedestrian (or bus and pedestrian) cannot be in the same place at the same time, the car speeds up to get there first. It doesn't matter where "there" is. Horns are the main feature of every car, and are used frequently. Seatbelts are used less frequently.

I've learned that the combination of stairs and a backpack is my sworn enemy at high elevations. There are 50 steps to climb on the way to school every morning (unless I take the bus, which is an entirely different thing), four flights of stairs inside the school, and four flights to get to my house. And then there is another flight to get to the kitchen.

I've learned that the bus system works only when you know how to work it. (In that respect, it's like marriage.) I've learned not to stand up more than twenty seconds from my stop, or they'll let me off right there. RIGHT there.

I've learned that soup is not thick and chunky here. It is before they put it in the blender, but it just doesn't seem to end up on the table that way. And then they put popcorn, mote, or mini french fries in it to give it some texture. Go figure.

I've learned that I'm not as afraid of dogs as I used to be. That's a good thing, because I've had to walk right through the middle of a group of seven stray dogs. They also like to follow me. One followed me from the bus stop right to the entrance of CEDEI.

Speaking of dogs, there are two categories of dogs here. There are stray dogs that no one cares about, and there are lap dogs dressed in sweaters and carried everywhere. When the two categories slightly overlap, you get dogs that live outside and are pampered inside.

I've learned that most expats from the States are ultimately just annoying. They yell into their cell phones, laugh loudly enough that pigeons don't stick around, and are generally the most entitled bunch of people I've ever seen. They are generally retired Americans, who talk about "the" Facebook as if it's a wonder that their daughter in Colorado "liked" the same picture as their Ecuadorian friend.

I've learned that I cannot seem to talk English well anymore. Spanglish is becoming more of a thing, when we speak English at all. We put definite articles in when we translate from Spanish to English, and it's common to repeat things in Spanish slowly when someone says, "What?" We don't always translate to English.

I've learned that Inca Lounge has the best American hamburgers, and Chiplote (that's spelled right) has the most wonderful taco salad. La Fornace's pizza is better than Tutto Freddo's, but you can't beat Cafe Austria's spaghetti. I've learned that there's a supermarket by the stadium, and that a burger place is definitely not at the intersection of 3 de noviembre and Gran Colombia.

I've learned that streets have odd names. I live on 24 de mayo; there's a 12 de abril and a 10 de agosto. Fray Vicente Solano vies with Gaspar Sangurima for difficulty saying fast. And doesn't Benigno Malo sound evil? The only street name that makes sense is Calle Larga: long street.

I've learned that Ecuadorians love to put alcohol sauce in ice cream. It's nasty stuff. They like to cook with it, too, but that's not so bad because the alcoholic taste goes away and all that's left is a taste that they could do very well without but don't want to.

We've learned that Parque de la Madre is a wonderful place to just lie on the grass and talk. It's also a place for couples to attempt to swallow each others' faces mouth-first for ten minutes without needing air.

I've learned that I'm hopeless with the preterite and gendered words in general. Thankfully my host family laughs at me and then corrects me. I haven't made any extreme blunders yet (as far as I know!), but it will happen sometime. Hopefully it won't end up being obscene.

But the best thing I've learned is that God is here, too. For the first three weeks it seemed like something was blocking His presence here. I've since come to realize that it doesn't matter if He's being blocked; He is still here. And then He tore through the barriers and made me realize that nothing can actually keep Him out. It was such a glorious lesson that I can't really explain it on a blog post! But it reminded me of this poem I wrote a while back:

No death nor life could shut Him in; no grave had power to hold Him.
No throne could keep Him from his own, nor wrath nor hell enfold Him.
Though leaving scars in their cruel wake, no spike could e'er detain Him.
Though sealed by Caesar's royal seal, no tomb could e'er contain Him.

No demon foul could conquer Him, no traitor could betray Him,
For all was done by God's decree and Christ by death portrayed Him.
And by His death 'tis true now that for one blood-bought forever,
No death nor life nor any else from the love of God can sever.