TWO Imaginative Prayer Scripture Stories Today!
'Tis the season for cozy cups of tea and books galore to read. :)
We interrupt this usual broadcast to announce…
I will be hosting my very first YouTube livestream! If you’re available and interested, you’re welcome to join me TOMORROW, Saturday, October 25, at 3 pm PST over on my channel for a Q&A of all things self-publishing as a Christian author!
*During that time, I will also be doing a live raffle for a free copy of my latest Rosary Invitation book!*
Newest book release!
Last week, I shared an excerpt from my own Rosary Invitations book, Gather Together, specifically the section titled “Place Yourself in the Story,” where I invite readers to enter into one of the Rosary Mysteries engaged with their five senses and the power of imagination. Today, I’m going to be sharing *TWO* creative Scripture stories from my new book, Cultivate Faith, my newest book release from September 15th!
I hope you enjoy!
Place Yourself in the Story
I invite you to take a moment: Close your eyes and imagine yourself present on the eve of Jesus’ final night in the Garden of Gethsemane. Imagine yourself or another character: What do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell? What do you feel? Are you standing or seated in a particular place? How can humility be experienced in this story?
I was supposed to be His rock. But all I did was fall asleep on one. Jesus trusted me to keep watch with Him. What were we to watch for? None of us could be sure, but it made no difference whether we understood. What mattered was that Jesus had asked us.
We sang a hymn as we left our supper meal together, and as everyone competed against one another for who could sing best as we walked along the way, I noticed Jesus was quiet, somber even, as we made our way to the garden. His song was quiet, almost melancholy. I swallowed, recalling the look in Judas’ eyes before he fled from the supper room, without any explanation of what he was doing or where he was going. This was like any other night. It had to be. But something felt different. What was I missing?
When we arrived at the garden, Jesus left us to wait just inside while He moved further on, deeper into the heart of the garden. I tried to pray, but my prayers were all muddled and unclear. I kept looking over at Jesus, where He knelt on the ground several yards away. Then suddenly, He fell down prostrate, looking as if dead. My brows furrowed as I glanced around. His lips were moving with His head bowed, but I couldn’t make out the words. I moved closer just as He asked a cup to pass from Him, but ultimately said He would do the Father’s will. What was the cup? And what was the Father’s will?
Jesus was quiet after that, and I squinted in surprise. Was that…blood? I wondered, watching as He raised His head to the heavens. No, it couldn’t be. No one had struck Him. But indeed, His face was perspiring with little red droplets that fell down His cheeks and mouth before dropping to the cold, hard earth. I felt something deep inside me wrench with sorrow and fear. I had never seen Jesus bleed before, and the sight touched me to my core.
I thought of His words only an hour before, around the table, “This is my blood, poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Poured out? No! I shivered, forcing vivid images away of blood pouring out of Jesus’ side like a flood.
“Let this cup pass from me,” He whispered then, and I looked back to where He was lying in the dirt, imagined Him holding a chalice in His hands, as he had just done at the recent supper table—a chalice that had then been filled with wine. I imagined red tears rolling down His cheeks and onto His hands, which spilled over into the cup. No! Why was I thinking such things?
I looked back at Him in the garden. His shoulders shook. Was He trembling? He sobbed and then continued an inaudible prayer. I desired to run to Him, but He had told us to remain and keep watch. A wave of fatigue and exhaustion overwhelmed me. I glanced around the garden, struggling to remain awake in my unexplained grief.
What was so sorrowful about a garden? The garden was beautiful, even as the darkness of night set in. So many trees and shrubs, and fruits of many kinds. I noticed the olive trees. I looked at them, and I thought of the garden so long ago, from our earliest stories, and I thought of the snake, and I thought of his tempting words.
I continued to struggle with a bombardment of thoughts, and it felt like there was still a missing piece in order for me to see the whole picture. My eyes grew heavy with sleep. I remember stirring awake and seeing a figure beside Jesus. I rubbed my eyes, blinking as the figure appeared to be comforting my Lord. A moment later, Jesus rose and returned to us, and I felt such guilt that I had not remained awake.
Place Yourself in the Story
I invite you to take a moment: Close your eyes and imagine yourself present at the moment of Jesus’ Scourging at the Pillar. Imagine yourself or another character: What do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell? What do you feel? Are you standing or seated in a particular place? How can humility be experienced in this story?
I watched as my fellow centurion raised his whip. “1…2…3…” I flinched at each crack of the leather ropes of ox hide, knotted at the ends with pieces of metal and sharp spikes that dug into and ripped out flesh with each flick and twist. I listened for each scream of agony as the hooks found their marks.
Forty times. This man would experience the fullest brutality of the scourges, and I could only wonder what He had done. No one had ever received the full number. I felt the coiled rope in my hands, not daring to touch the spikes, knowing it would be my turn soon to crack the whip upon His naked back. This man at the post was young, my age, most likely. His head was bowed low, stripped of His clothes; His body painted in lines of red.
“4…5…6…” He cried out again with each impact of the whip slapping His bare back, sides, hands, and head. Blood began to trickle faster and thicker out snake-like lines down his back. He gripped the post before Him to keep His balance as He swayed unsteadily, while my fellow centurion seemed to revel in this humble man’s screams of anguish.
“7…8…9…” He slid down along the post, body trembling, and I almost wanted to rush to His side. Almost. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. The blood was pouring in heavy amounts now, sticking to His hair and face. Blood poured down His hands and fingertips as He fell, grunting with the impact of His body smacking into the post.
“10…11…12” He struggled to His feet under my fellow centurion’s shouts and demands to rise. His hands were tied to the post, shaking uncontrollably, and I could see the ropes cutting deep red welts into His wrists as He fell to the ground once more, His face colliding with the pole with a sickening crack. I knew I should throw a whip of my own, but all I could do was watch, paralyzed by the sight of this man so beaten and broken before me. So helpless beneath the blows as the centurion goaded Him.
“13…14…15…” He was not even halfway there. Halfway to surviving these cracks of lightning that the centurion catapulted upon Him with all his might. The centurion erupted into laughter, but I could only bite my lip. My heart leapt to my throat, wondering if He would survive these extreme onslaughts of blows.
“16…17…18…” Tearing my desperate gaze from the bloodied man, I noted who I could only assume were friends and family standing at a distance, tears in their eyes or spilling down their cheeks as they reached for Him from behind the bars of the closest gate. A woman fell to her knees, clenching her hand in a fist over her heart, as she gasped for breath, barely able to watch. Tears flooded down her cheeks like a rushing river as she sobbed and collapsed onto the cold ground. “19…20…21…” His mother.
I stared down again at the whip in my hand, feeling nauseous at the thought of the metal and bone pieces attached at the ends, imagining them ripping out my own flesh. “22…23…24…” I had whipped many a man in the past, but something about this man held me back. Perhaps it was the way He didn’t beg for mercy, didn’t throw curses or insults our way. Besides His screams, He was quiet. He opened not His mouth against us. “25…26…27…” He took what He was being given with an unforeseen grace and dignity, despite the many times He crumpled beneath the rain of fire. “28…29…30…”
He was hardly recognizable now, blood, sweat, and tears pouring off Him in waves. His blood painted the stones. His blood splattered the post. His blood flew out over everything in the vicinity, covering all, even me. I was showered with His blood. “31…32…33…” It was almost over, but somehow it only felt like the beginning, the beginning of something heartrendingly glorious, something I couldn’t put my finger on, but something beyond us all. “34…35…36…” The end was near; the end of the pain, the end of the suffering, the end of death.
Death? “37…38…39…”
“God have mercy,” I whispered.
The Rosary Invitations
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