The Funeral I Didn’t Dress Up For

I always look forward to Good Friday services. Each year, the death of Jesus is presented in a new and out-of-the-box way. But this year may have been one of my favorites to date.

What I didn’t know was that this service would be a funeral for Jesus.

I missed the memo... 
There’s some irony in that because I’ve never been one to dress up for church. Growing up, I was forced to wear things that never felt like me—hand-me-downs that didn’t fit, dresses that made me feel invisible or uncomfortable. I dreaded Sundays, not because I didn’t love God, but because I didn’t feel like I belonged.

So being part of a church that welcomes me just as I am—with my leggings, t-shirt, and Hey Dudes—is a big deal.

Tonight, I came to the “funeral” with messy hair, puffy eyes from crying earlier that day, and the unmistakable weight of grief and exhaustion. I invited Nohn, one of Logan’s home nurses, to come with us. She was hesitant. She said she wasn’t dressed for church.

And I got to tell her what someone should’ve told me all those years ago:
It doesn’t matter what you wear. No one is here to judge you. You come as you are.
Because we’re not here for appearances.
We’re here for Jesus.

I loved introducing her to some of my favorite people. I loved hearing her sing softly beside me, rocking gently to the somber hymns. I loved sharing my home—and my faith—with her.

As different people took the pulpit to share their memories of Jesus, I found myself thinking…
What would I say at His funeral?

Where would I begin?

Would I tell the story of when I had nothing left—stripped of everything I thought gave me worth? Would I tell the truth about the betrayal that led to the loss of a six-figure income, foreclosure on my home, food stamps, WIC, Medicaid and the quiet prayers over empty cupboards? The fear. The uncertainty. The injustice.

That was my wilderness.

But it was also where Jesus met me.
It was where He provided manna.
It was where He reminded me, day by day, that I was never alone.

It was in the silence, the struggle, and the surrender that my faith was tested and my testimony strengthened.
It was there that I thirsted for peace and restoration I could only get from Him.
It was there that He stripped away what no longer served me and refined what was left.

So if I were to speak at His funeral, I would say this:

Jesus has been the friend who never walked away.
The one who met me at the well of my shame and saw me anyway.
The one who sat with me in the grief, the loss, the mess—and never asked me to clean up first.

That’s why Good Friday is still good.

Because even when death feels final…
Sunday is coming.

Friday's good 'cause Sunday is coming.
Don't lose hope 'cause Sunday is coming.
Devil, you're done, you better start running.
Friday's good 'cause Sunday is coming.