Behind the Curtain

The last scene is written. The final cue is marked.
The Cross has been lifted—and I am undone.

I never set out to write a Passion Play. I set out to listen.
To the silence in the garden.
To the rustle of linen as Peter fled.
To the cries of a mother losing her son.
To the breathless hush before the veil tore.

I didn’t write this with ink—I wrote it with awe.
There were nights I stared at the page and thought, “How can I speak where Scripture itself goes quiet?”
There were moments when I felt more stagehand than author—arranging shadows, not words.

And yet, He came.

He came in the stillness between scenes.
He came in the line I didn’t plan but couldn’t stop writing.
He came in the voice of the one who played Judas and cried backstage.

This wasn’t just a play. It was a prayer.
A procession of grief and glory, held not in gold vessels, but in the trembling hearts of a cast that dared to step into Calvary.

And now it’s finished.
The lights go down. The cross stands still.
But something in me still walks the road.

I pray that every person who watches, reads, or performs this play will come to know that holy hour—not just as theater, but as truth.
Because once you’ve stood in the shadow of the Cross, you cannot walk away the same.