Chad and I were on our way back from Okanogan on highway 97 and as I looked up at the cross on the hillside by the hospital, I was flooded with my child like faith as I started giggling. Chad knew there was a story to be had.
When I was a young girl this group of women came to our house, all wearing matching uniform shirts and visors. At the time we lived far out on Salmon Creek road and visitors were far and in-between- unless they were the Hispanics making bids to my auctioneer father for my pet goats… another story. This group was a Christian group that was offering a Christian camp for youth. To my surprise my dad ok’d us to go… I was really unsure of who Jesus Christ was other than the man on the candles my mom use to burn. So every day for a week, these ladies picked us up in their minivan that smelt like cat hair and my brother and I went to a camp for the day beneath dazzling circus tents. We learned songs and recited scripture and ate far too many wafer cookies. At the end of the camp bit, I had a concept about Jesus. He died for all the bad we did and they hung him on the cross, plus he loved me. I didn’t know why, we never met- he didn’t know me. I thought maybe he had me confused with another long scraggly haired girl. These women shared with us the stories of Jesus’ life. I never once questioned the testimonies, I just knew it to be true- it made sense. I will never forget the sense of that absolute truth, unbreakable, no contortion, black and white.
About a week later we were on our way into town in my dad’s “wood truck,” (another story yet) and I looked up on the hillside and saw the cross near the hospital. I was baffled. Why would they leave the cross Jesus was killed on up? It represented so much sadness?! I pictured all the people that would have stood on the hill throwing rocks. Day after day, year after year, I wondered when they would take it down. Until one day I learned that Jesus was not crucified in Omak, Washington.
As I shared my story with Chad, we laughed (more he then I) and it dawned on me that the cross represented his death, no matter where it happened. It might as well have happened in Omak, it happened and it was for me. When I find myself lost in life’s disorder and questions encircle me, I look at that cross and bear in mind the absolute truth and bask in my child like faith.