A Crucifix Kind of Love

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As I type this, my dad has been in the hospital for eleven days after receiving a t-cell transplant. (Here are Part 1 and Part 2 of the cancer experience, in case you want the back story.)

Yesterday I was able to sneak away and visit him. It was so nice after everything that’s happened this past year to be able to just sit and chat. Since having kids, my family is usually a package deal, and the kids tend to prevent long one-on-one discussions.

At one point during the visit, I tapped a pile of books that kind friends and family had brought up. “Have you read any of these?”

My dad shrugged it off, “No. Everyone is so worried about me getting bored. Your mom is here every day, and we just talk. So I don’t ever get bored.”

I’ve always known that my parents have a special sort of relationship. Seeing them face this year together has only solidified that.

During this season of Lent especially, our eyes are on the crucifix. Sometimes our Protestant brothers and sisters are a little skeeved out by our fixation on the crucifix. We put them in our churches, on the walls in our homes, and around our necks. They’re gory. And a sad. What’s the deal?

I’m not sure about all the theological implications, but my conversation with my dad helped me understand why that gory image is so moving.

When a starry-eyed couple gets married, they think of how much they love each other. They imagine long walks, long talks, and lots of fun. They’re excited to spend the rest of their lives adventuring together.

I bet most people don’t spend their wedding day thinking about the tears, the pain, the suffering that comes with every marriage. Wayward children, financial troubles, caring for aging parents, cancer– no one is exempt.

The love that those newlyweds experience is sweet. It’s young and innocent, not knowing the twists and turns life will take.

But the love a couple reaches after a few of those twists gets to a new level.

My uncle said we should get a picture of my dad at the hospital in order to share with people how he’s doing. My mom sent me the first picture they took. It was fine. Then she sent a picture of the two of them together. It was a night and day difference.

Do you see it? You can see he’s smiling behind his mask with my mom by his side. But it’s more than that. He looks like himself. Stronger somehow.

This is a crucifix kind of love.

This is the kind of love where you know your heart might just get ripped out, but you’d do it all over again anyway.

This is the kind of love where you sacrifice your comfort, your wants, your needs to make life a little easier for the other.

This is a kind of loves that extends beyond this world.

The highlight of this awful journey for me (with my limited understanding from my backseat view of cancer) happened a few weeks ago.

My parents put together an informal prayer service for my dad before he went into the hospital for the t-cell transplant. Our priest was there for the anointing of the sick, and then one of the local Knights of Columbus guys led the rosary. We invited our family, friends, and church family to join us.

David snapped a picture from the back of the church.

These dear people came to church on a Sunday afternoon to pray for my dad. My mom. All of us.

My parents sat in the front of church, and so many people filled the pews behind them, supporting them spiritually and present physically.

This is a crucifix kind of love, a love that multiplies and spreads and touches people.

And it hurts. It isn’t easy. That’s what makes it so special.

That’s what I would tell my non-Catholic friends about all our crucifixes. Sure, we’ve got our wedding picture up in our house. But the crucifix displays a kind of love that isn’t sweet and innocent. It shows a love that is all in. Life giving. Messy. There’s no doubt how much Jesus loves us when we see the crucifix.

We need to be reminded of that kind of love, too. We need to remember that our calling is to love each other when we don’t deserve it. To love without counting the cost. To love so hard we are stretched and changed into something new.

As we plod on toward Easter, I’m going to have to do some more reflecting on this idea. No matter what our state in life, we are all called to a radical self-giving love. How should that look in my life? Do my choices reflect that calling? Tough questions. Uncomfortable answers.

I’m so sorry that my parents have gone through the rollercoaster of emotions and worries and physical suffering this past year. But I’m grateful for their example. Looking at them in that hospital picture and in their every day life, there’s no doubt about where their hearts are.

They are practicing a crucifix kind of love.

7 Comments


  1. // Reply

    Beautiful … simply beautiful! Through the hard times a person sees the deep love for each other. I love the explanation of the crufix. Thank you for sharing….


  2. // Reply

    Thank you for sharing. Lent is a poignant time to be reminded of sacrificial love. We continue to pray for your dad every day.


  3. // Reply

    Alicia, this is such a beautifully written and inspiring post. Thank you so much for sharing. Your dad is a blessed man, rich in what matters most, no matter the outcome of this cancer.


  4. // Reply

    “It shows a love that is all in.”
    “To love so hard we are stretched and changed into something new.”
    May I get better at that kind of love!


  5. // Reply

    Very deep and heart warming is your perspective of the crucifix related to your parents. With the crucifix there is always the corpus / body and the cross. The two together make up the crucifix. Your Father carrying his cross which is heavy (pic 1) and in (pic2) Same man and same heavy cross but your mother helping him carry that cross (cross now not so heavy) smile on your Fr’s face and (pic 3 ) congregation in church praying for him puts a smile on your whole family’s faces and makes your crosses lighter too. Wonderful example of what it means to be “Church “ = the bride of Christ there in an intimate union with the body of Christ. I am praying for your Father also.

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