Good Friday and Other Menstrual Moments

The first of two Easter guests posts from Alysia Nicole Harris

Alysia Nicole Harris

Hi all,

A solemn Good Friday to you all. As you may know, I am starting to feature guest writers on my Substack. I am thankful that this practice can foreground my dear friends, for we rest amongst community. The first piece was back in December from Rachel Kolb on faith, music, and deafness, and today’s is from another close homie, Alysia. Dr. Alysia Nicole Harris is a beloved. She’s a poet, performer, linguist and teaching-artist. She lives and worships in Corsicana, Texas, but works and loves globally. You can read her Substack here.

I asked Alysia to write on rest and Good Friday, the day of Jesus’ crucifixion, and that she very much did. She also wrote a reflection on Holy Saturday, the day following Jesus’ death. That’ll come your way tomorrow. God’s speed as you read.

abundantly,

Julian

P.S. In the spirit of rest, I will not write to you on Easter too. I’m just thankful that the Crucified God doesn’t remain dead. Let us sing Hallelujah together.

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My body is a great instructor. I’ve been with her for 35 years, and only recently have I begun listening to her. I hope to get better at that as I age. No doubt, she will only get louder. 

24 of these 35 years, I have had a period. Most women hate to see it come and hate to see it go. The great red Catch 22 between our legs. But this year, I made the conscious choice not to hate it but to get more curious about what a period preaches. 

It’s Good Friday anyway. Seems appropriate. Believers everywhere are thinking about the Blood and its connection to life. As a female follower of Jesus, I think about this connection monthly, because once a month—Oh, the blood!  Instead of receiving this as a curse, on this Good Friday, I receive it as a sign of life, or that because of the shedding of blood, life is newly possible, at least.

Most times our suffering, though, doesn’t lead to life. It’s merely a part of the cycle. In this life you will have suffering, Jesus says, and my uterus contracts. 

There’s a lot of meaningless suffering built into living—a lot of empty agony. I think about the mama in Gaza who was on IVF for 13 years to conceive her twins, only for Israeli bombs to murder them in an airstrike. To say her suffering is for some purpose—No. The shedding of their blood can only be one thing: sin.

There’s so much suffering that goes into reproducing, or not. All these painful, pointless periods. Cramps, diarrhea, emotional tumult, acne, and exhaustion—for what, exactly? I’m not trying to get pregnant. Only a very small fraction of the eggs I was born with will ever even have the potential of being fertilized. 24 years, 288 cycles, and I’ve never conceived. That’s a lot of spilled milk. 

But my menses is not bad. It’s what I do on my own. It’s my body’s best. It’s glory. And after all the unseen labor of preparing life, it’s tired. For the last 24 years, I’ve been trying to carry on with all the tasks and responsibilities during my period despite having it. What if I listened to my body and its suffering, and decided to rest?

On the cross, I think that’s what Jesus did. He didn’t linger. He bore his labor. He let the blood flow. He didn’t despise it. He didn’t cling to it either. That afforded him a pretty short death and a longer rest before resurrecting. 

That’s a cue for me physically and spiritually. There will be plenty more menstrual moments. Let them flow, but don’t wallow in them. They’re a part of the cycle, just as Good Friday preceded Resurrection Sunday. When I look and see the blood, it is the testimony that life was happening all along, and against these odds, one day life will happen again, this time for good.

This isn’t about my life’s fulfillment being in a man or a child—these are just physical symbols. But if I let life pass through me, let life reside in me with great and continuing consent, as Jesus allowed the Father, there will be new life.

When my period ends, I wash away the old, the life that didn’t happen. I ready myself for the invisible labor of physical and spiritual hope to begin again. This does not mean an end to pain, since the pain and inconvenience of a child is greater than that of a period. It means the swallowing up of the uselessness of pain in something greater. 288 eggs in exchange for one swaddled life. All the agony, all that precious blood alchemized, fleshed, breathing.