You turn a corner and see a sign. “Holy Sepulchre.” And there it is. Right there. Right here. He died here. For us. Because of us. Because of me.
By the time you make it in and up the stairs to Calvary, it’s all too appropriate that you would encounter His mother, her heart pierced.
When we celebrated Mass there, a little powerhouse of a Dominican sister showed up, standing, then leaning in prayer in front of that image of the Blessed Mother.
A triple dose of yeses there.
All of our yeses somehow seem more doable here. Everything we are or could be called to. We’re not alone. Not when God Himself would walk in our shoes, suffer unbearable cruelty, and die only to save us, despite ourselves.