(image of Golgotha, “place of the skull”)

Several weeks ago in my Bible study, we were challenged to envision what Simon of Cyrene saw and felt as he was forced to carry Jesus’ cross outside the city:  “As the soldiers led him away, they seized Simon from Cyrene, who was on his way in from the country, and put the cross on him and made him carry it behind Jesus.” – Luke 23:26

Until now, I overlooked this recorded piece of history. It merely pointed to the significance of Jesus’ suffering before the crucifixion. I pondered Simon next to our Messiah, who had been flogged and beaten, and I believe he must have seen so much. Simon saw the fresh wounds deep into his human flesh. Have you ever seen the wounds of Christ? They are graphic. They are painful. They are undeserved. As I studied the crucifixion, God allowed me to see one such wound up close, much like Simon must have seen. And like Simon, I am not the same.

Starting out my day, I had different plans. Simon no doubt had other plans on his appointed morning as well. He had likely come into Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover.

Our social worker called and she needed a place for a sweet one for just a few days while things got “settled” in her current home. We had room and a fairly open schedule. Enter sweet brown-eyed toddler girl. When you meet little hearts who have no consistent person to call Mommy or Daddy, who care for younger siblings that are suddenly not there, you see wounds. They are undeserved. They are cruel. Horrific in fact. Seeing those wounds is a heavy burden to carry.

This was her first separation from family, from her many younger and older siblings. She was two! She was old enough to know how wrong this was, yet too young to hear any decent explanation. When you realize that despite your good intentions, you are responsible for the wounds, the burden can be overwhelming. I was an active participant in her trauma as I woke her up from her nap so that a new social worker could take her to yet another home. Away from the place she had dared trust me to care for her. I had no comforting words, nothing about it made any sense. It all happened so fast, As she drove away screaming, I felt sick that I could do nothing to comfort her, to protect her.

I doubt Simon comforted our Lord as well. He was thrust into an unknown, hasty moment of graphic pain. He simply did his job in picking up the cross and carrying it alongside the Perfect Lamb. He was not called to save Jesus from his suffering, he was called to carry the cross. For me, this is the most difficult part of being a foster parent. I truly would love to “save” children from their desperate situations and unthinkable environments. Sometimes, we are just called to carry a cross up a hill and we are done. We are helpless to save. We have a front row seat to the suffering of the innocent and we even catch glimpses of the wounds we inflict. It was nauseating to participate in such wound making.

Much like Christ, her innocence is overwhelming and her wounds heartbreaking. On that hill to Golgotha, the pain had only begun for our Messiah. Those wounds were a small part of the suffering that was to come in his brutal crucifixion. My glimpse of her wounds is nothing compared to those of the more than 5,000 children in foster care in my state alone.

However, I hear a Gentle Spirit remind me that God’s story does not end at Golgotha and His story does not end in my driveway. His story is one of Hope and Redemption. He is the Resurrected God and His power is more than sufficient in my weakness. I will continue to trust in Him alone, for He loves her more than I ever could. His love kept Him on a Roman cross for her.