Sailors on the French nuclear submarine L’Inflexible will enter a foreign world when they resurface, some time this month. They submerged in February, their ship a sanctuary, keeping them safe from Covid-19. They have no idea how it is ravaging the world, according to a newspaper report.

The French navy’s policy is to keep sailors fully focused on their job, without distractions. Only their captain is aware of what is happening, above. My heart is with them and their families. The shock of it all. The sense of loss they will suddenly experience.

Their situation is reminescent of Holy Saturday. Nothing seemed to be happening the day after Jesus died on a Roman cross and was buried in a borrowed grave.

Forgotten? Not by a long shot.

But dead, for sure.

His ministry, apparently over. Kaput. Done.

No one expected anything out of the ordinary to follow that quiet Saturday, though Jesus told his disciples he would rise in three days and be with them, always.

Then, came Sunday.

Up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph over his foes!

Victorious.

Alive, for sure.

Changing human history, forever.

Angelic alleluias call us to join in their songs of hope. Can you hear them?

I’m coping with multiple layers of health issues, plus fears of Covid-19, as are many of you. I couldn’t endure this journey through cancer, chemo and the threat of corona virus without songs of praise.

Holy Week takes me back to the sights and sounds of Jerusalem. My coworkers and I had been in Galilee, all green and lovely with the rolling sea and the scent of honeysuckle in the air. We’d also traveled through the bone-dry Judean desert.

Then, came Jerusalem. The Spirit brushed over us as our bus approached the Holy City. I felt the pull of history and geography as an unexpected yearning, a homing instinct deep within. Anticipation hovered as we sang “Sanctuary,” a new song for me:

Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary,

pure and holy, tried and true.

With thanksgiving,

I’ll be a living sanctuary, for you! (Thompson & Scruggs)

Although I’d heard about Jerusalem all my life, being there is like comparing a faded sepia photograph from one bursting with color. Vehicles crowded noisy streets; one rear license plate announced, “I’m a student driver” along the winding road leading up to the Holy City. I felt like a student too. Immersed in this sacred place that seemed somehow familiar, like a dream from the distant past.

I wonder if Heaven will be like that.

When we arrive will we feel like a tourist, a guest, a foreigner?

Or will the embrace of the Father’s love overtake every thought and quivering emotion, bringing us to our knees to sing: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!

We’ve heard ideas about it, seen faint hints as we plod along. Until we arrive, we have no idea what delights await us.

How different that will be from what awaits the French sailors. Of course, their captain knows and most likely hurts for the thousand shocks those in his command will endure.

As does the Captain of our souls. He charts our course according to the stars his Father placed in the night sky, guiding us home.

When John Wesley crossed the stormy Atlantic on a missionary journey, he hovered in fear. Moravian believers, meanwhile, held a prayer and praise meeting. He envied how they trusted their Captain. Later, he was filled with God’s Spirit at what sounds to me like a boring meeting, Yet, God’s light broke through. He was transformed and transformed England with a movement of faith-infused social justice .

At the darkest moments, God is with us. A year ago, I was diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer; it was and still seems unreal. I depend upon God’s grace for bright days to enjoy this green planet & precious loved ones. Yet, I know the day will come when the heavenly pull of love will far exceed all that presently keeps me earthbound.

Written to honor President Lincoln, someday I’ll say to Jesus,

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack,

the prize we sought is won – Walt Whitman

God, outside the spectrum of chronological time, knows the end from the beginning. Psalm 31 promises our times are in his hands.

That’s Scripture. God’s truth for you. For me. For all of us.

I’m praying you are blessed with a sanctuary, a safe harbor in Jesus, my friends, this Resurrection season.

All will be well.

Texting Thru Recovery, Indiana Gazette

(Word Art by Tara Woodard-Lehman)

(The painting pictured here was a gift from our pastor’s wife, Lura Jean Park, to my son Brett, as a child.)

(Image of St. Columba from Diocese Derry & a Royal stamp)