Good Friday.  In the dark of the night past, all pain and suffering.

In the light of this afternoon,  death.

This night, the earth pains in childbirth.  God is being born.

A heart full of reverence for the great and conquering sacrifice.

The photo above, downloaded from Wikipedia is of Amundsen, Hanssen, Hassel, and Wisting at the South Pole at the end of 1911. There was a fifth member of the team, Olav Bjaaland, presumably the photographer. The bare heads for identification purposes is a nice touch.

These Wikipedia paragraphs about Bjaaland are cool:

At the turn of the century, Bjaaland, together with the Hemmestveit brothers were among the best skiers in Norway. In 1902, he won the nordic combined at the Holmenkollen Ski Festival, to this day the classic event in nordic skiing. In 1909 Bjaaland, together with five others were invited to France to compete with the best skiers of Europe.

On this trip, Bjaaland by chance met Roald Amundsen. The already successful explorer invited Bjaaland to join his forthcoming expedition to the North Pole. Bjaaland was thrilled, and still believing that they were heading to the North Pole. However, they left Oslo, Norway on 7 June 1910 heading south to race for the Antarctic pole against Robert Falcon Scott.

Scott’s team arrived at the pole a month after Amundsen’s and perished on their return. All four in the photo above would die before men would again set foot at the South Pole 47 years later in 1958. Hanssen died in 1956. However, Bjaaland was still alive in 1958 and would be until 1961.

It comes to mind today as an astronaut crew is orbiting as much as 40,000 miles above the Earth, able for the first time since 1972 to view an entire hemisphere at once. Five of the twenty-four who previously had such a view still live.

The wrenching agony, the intense effort, sweat and pain, haggard, the ripping, the need to push. Do or die.  Cry after cry after cry.

The oncoming black, the world fades, memory fades, the eyes close but they long since ceased to see, darkness, nothing.

The plan announced yesterday by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is that starting in September the ward Relief Societies, young women’s classes, priesthood quorums, and Sunday schools will meet twice as often for half as long. Motives for the change stated in the announcement are, “Gathering weekly in every [Sunday school] class helps deepen gospel learning by connecting it more closely to personal and family study,” and “There is additive strength that comes when we meet each week to counsel, learn, and support one another [in Relief Society].”

As I contemplate the change it is easy to turn to grumbling, murmuring mode, so I, and maybe you, will need to keep that in check as we consider what is going on and how this is going to work.
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You are afraid to die. You think on it sometimes. The final helplessness. We say we know what comes after but we don’t. It looms at the end. Even the Savior wept.  It is horrible.

Tragedy in the old sense. Two faces of the same coin. That which made you special and great, the source of your greatest triumphs, has led you to this, this misery and disappointment and end of all hopes. Your fire has become your ashes.

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Palm Sunday is a celebration day and it is right that it should be so.  Because the Holy Week to come is also a procession and it also ends in a coronation.  The King of Jerusalem or else the very stones would cry out!  That was how his last week began.  And it ended with the very stones crying out in earthquake, proclaiming him the King of the Universe.

It is not comfortable to ride a donkey, but perhaps it feels easier on the bones if you know you are riding to your crown.  Your pains are donkey-back pains.  They are taking you to your city and your throne.  You cannot see them, but the crowds are there, cheering.

On the sweetness.

Though it is Palm Sunday, your congregation sings all the easter hymns with enthusiasm–He is Risen!  The chapel is full.  Two sets of children join to sing Gethsemane.  Expiation, crucifixion, the Garden, the Cross, the Tomb, the Risen Lord, it is all one, and you are one.  A half hour after the service, the chapel is still full of people talking.

Your nose runs but you cannot breathe. Your throat rasps. Your head hurts. Everything hurts.  Your eyes, oh man.  You are so tired, why can’t you sleep?

Ookh. Your stomach is like a drum about to burst. The pressure–things are moving down there–this does not feel good.

They hurt—some. They are tender. They throb. Don’t bump!

You are afraid to try. You fear the laughter, the mockery, the self-contempt. The suspicion that you aren’t good enough made into a certainty. It would be bitter, and the fear of it now is bitter also.

You are afraid of the hurt. You are afraid of the wrench, the jolt, the stab, the cut, the tears. You are afraid of pain, body and soul, and the fear is sharp.  The fear itself makes you feel pain.