"Why this cross? Why now? What is the thing trying to say, in its way?
"I've taken it off and set it down next to the keyboard, and I'm looking at it as I type. It speaks to me, this cross, of courage, of being bold and firm and trustful in faith. It speaks of living into the fullness of life. It speaks of deep grief and the willingness to endure that patiently, facing right into it without skimping, and of great joy and the willingness to accept and embrace it — to look into joy's face unblinking.
"It warns against the littleness that takes refuge in self-satisfaction and narrowness and self-imposed restrictions. It warns against the deep dangers of numbness and unawareness. It cries out against cutting off parts of life out of fearfulness, of retreating into the least-possible trouble. It speaks of entering fully, but also gently, into another soul's pain instead of standing to one side.
"It insists on growth and change and the fullness of being. It holds out for truthfulness and honor and living each moment in the Way. It talks about pointing the soul's prow into the wave instead of scudding for shoal water. It has no use for fear, this cross; it talks about the willingness to step out into thin air, the willingness to love with the whole, unfettered heart, the willingness to endure and be strong.
I've slipped it back on, and for a second the chain is cold on the back of my neck. I'm not sure I can live up to this one, but the cross knows that too. The metal will warm up in a second, and for the rest of today the two of us will be together, it banging and thumping gently against my breast whenever I move, asking sometimes for me to hold it in my closed hand, keeping me company, holding me safe."
