“I love your cross.” I hear these words frequently, ever since I began wearing a Russian Orthodox crucifix on a chain around my neck.
This silver cross was my husband's, and was sent home from the hospital in a plastic bag along with his shirt, shorts, shoes and wallet the day he died.
I immediately put it on, and have worn it every day since then because it's a stark reminder of what Christianity is all about.
After all, Christ's message goes beyond cozy potluck suppers, meet and greets, fundraising and being nice to people.
Forget warm and fuzzy sermons, feel-good singing and passing the collection plate. All these are fine, but we find them in civic organizations.
As Catholic writer Flannery O'Connor so brilliantly put it: "People think religion is an electric blanket when, of course, it is the cross."
I'd grown somewhat complacent about my faith before my husband's death. Life was going smoothly with both of us involved in our writing and artwork.
We sat on the back deck the day before his fatal heart attack, enumerating how much we had to anticipate.
There was a trip to Nashville, where he'd be lecturing on his Tolkien-themed artwork, an anniversary getaway to the Gulf Coast — and then Christmas in Florida.
The only event that actually happened was Christmas in Florida, and it was my first without him in 33 years.
Before his death, I made frequent resolutions about attending weekday Masses, praying more faithfully and growing closer to God.
Something always thwarted my best intentions, whether it was meeting a friend or meeting a deadline.
For the first year following his death, I was in such shock I couldn't grasp what had happened to me. I remember one day waking up and saying, "My God, this is the cross."
It's true — I'd been hit with a gigantic, unexpected cross that knocked the breath out of me. Still, once I realized I'd been given Christ's cross, I started trudging, ever so slowly, to acceptance.
Oddly enough, now I find more time to pray, attend weekday Masses and reflect on the heart of Christ's teachings.
You see, people often draw especially close to Christ when they experience, firsthand, his invitation to discipleship.
"If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me."
I think about John Holcombe, who lost his pregnant wife, three stepchildren, parents and other family members in the Texas church shooting, and quoted St. Paul on his Facebook page.
"All things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose." Which doesn't mean tragedies are wonderful, but they have redemptive power.
The cross is the thunderbolt smashing your heart into a million pieces. The pain stalking you like a hungry wolf wherever you go.
When a mother approached Jesus about getting her sons prime spots in heaven, he asked them, "Can you drink the chalice that I am going to drink?"
The chalice contains suffering, which is neither futile, nor a punishment for sins.
Christ's agonizing death led to the resurrection, so whatever we endure in this world, Christians hope for an afterlife, where love triumphs over pain.
There's nothing wrong with rummage sales, handshakes and cozy get-togethers, as long as they don't eclipse the heart of Christianity — which is drinking from Jesus' chalice and following him to Golgotha.
And that's why I wear the crucifix each day — as a reminder that death doesn't get the last word.
