The Spirit Still Lingers | Episode II: The Cross in the Car Window

A Meditation on Conviction, Martyrdom, and the Echo of the Savior

The Cross in the Car Window is a poetic teaser for Episode II of The Spirit Still Lingers — a meditation on conviction, grief, and the quiet symbolism of public mourning.

Prologue: What Remains

There are moments when history folds inward.

Not with headlines or speeches, but with a single gesture—quiet, symbolic, almost missed.

It happened on a recent afternoon, just past the weight of tragedy.

A car moved slowly, carrying the widow of a man many called courageous, and many others condemned.

The street was hushed. Tires whispered against the pavement.

And in the window—not a slogan, not a flag—

a cross.

A small necklace, swaying as the car moved forward.

Worn once close to the heart.

Now lifted into view, not in triumph—but in testament.

And with it came the echo:

“He saved others, but he cannot save himself.”

We have heard it before.

On a hill outside Jerusalem.

In Memphis, at a motel.

In Delhi, with folded hands.

In a hundred nameless places where words were met with bullets.

This entry is not about politics.

It is about the pattern.

The pattern of the cross—the moment when belief becomes unbearable to the world around it.

The moment when words no longer echo from pulpits, but from caskets.

The moment when conviction becomes cost.

A quiet gesture. A symbol once worn now revealed, catching the air between silence and meaning.

The Cross as Gesture, and as Gate

It is a small thing, isn’t it?

A necklace in a window.

Silver, maybe. Or gold. Dangling from a hand or mirror.

Held not high like a weapon, but offered like a wound.

We’re told it belonged to him—

a man who initially did not wear symbols openly,

who followed Christ boldly, and inwardly,

keeping the cross close but unseen.

Until death asked otherwise.

This time, the cross was not worn—it was shown.

And in that moment, grief became liturgy.

A silent widow lifted the ancient sign.

And it asked—more than what he died for,

but what we believe dies with him…

and what may now be reborn.

The Pattern of the Cross

The cross is not just a relic of faith.

It is the oldest pattern of resistance and redemption.

It is the shape of innocence pierced by power.

It appears not only in churches, but in every story where the messenger is slain:

Gandhi’s prayer beads, stained with blood.

Dr. King’s final sermon, echoing with prophecy.

Jesus, taunted by soldiers: “If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross.”

And again, in the jeers that rise when a man is silenced by force:

“Where is your Messiah now?”

“He couldn’t even save himself.”

“Good riddance.”

The spirit of the cross lingers wherever death is weaponized against truth—

where applause greets a fallen peacemaker,

where conviction itself becomes a target.

And in those places,

the cross shines not as victory,

but as witness.

Suspended between earth and sky, the cross waits—holding the memory of those who dared to speak.

The Spirit Still Lingers

So, what lingers now?

Not just controversy.

Not just headlines.

But something older… and harder to name.

It lingers in the questions we try not to ask:

Why are some deaths mourned, and others mocked?

What does it cost to speak what you believe?

Do we still crucify those we fear—only now with pixels instead of nails?

The cross in the car window asked nothing.

It simply appeared.

But in its silent sway,

it echoed across centuries.

It called to every martyr, every mocked prophet, every slain peacemaker.

And perhaps—just perhaps—it called to us.

To choose again.

Not sides.

But spirit.

Epilogue: Beneath the Cross, We Choose

If the spirit still lingers,

it lingers not in marble statues or sermons carved in stone—

but in the trembling breath of those who remain.

It lives in the widow’s hand.

In the quiet defiance of showing what was once hidden.

In the refusal to return hate for hate,

and in the courage to still speak after the speaker has fallen.

The cross will always be a scandal.

A contradiction.

A question mark etched in wood and blood.

It asks not just, Who do you follow?

But, What will you risk for what you believe?

Will you hide your symbols?

Or wear them when the wind is sharp?

Will you mourn without mockery?

Or cheer for the silencing of a soul?

And if a man dies speaking peace—

what part of you dies with him?

And what part of you… might finally rise?

The cross still lingers—not in form, but in light. Not in doctrine, but in presence.

Your Invitation

Take this moment not as argument,

but as mirror.

Take a breath.

Recall someone who died for truth,

and how their absence reshaped your path.

Light a candle, if you must.

Or walk in silence.

Or write the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

Because the cross still lingers.

And so does the spirit of the one who carried it.

Not to condemn.

But to remind us—

we are still choosing.

Series echo:

The Wright brothers showed us that the spirit of flight lingers in every leap of imagination.

The cross shows us that the spirit of conviction lingers in every act of costly witness.

Together, they ask: what spirit still lingers in you?