Good Friday

I took my daughter to the post office this morning to mail a card to a young friend here in town who’s fighting brain cancer. From there, we drove to the Grotto at Notre Dame to say a short prayer. It was chilly, and I had to retreat to the car early. A family of six gathered there at the same time as we, three small children with three adults and one dog.

After lunch we tuned in to a live video stream of a Good Friday service at the church where Anna was baptized. And again we participated in communion at Anna’s kitchen table — a piece of bagel dipped into fruit juice.

And in the afternoon I turn again to the Stations of the Cross to remember the day everything changed.

Veronica offers her veil to Jesus, and he wipes the sweat and blood from his face.
Jesus falls the second time under the weight of the cross.
When Jesus encountered a group of women wailing and lamenting for him, he said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.”
Jesus falls a third time.
The Roman soldiers stripped Jesus of his garments and cast lots for his coat.

Darkness. Suffering. Endurance. Sacrifice. Friday of Holy Week brings these words to the forefront of my attention. They are words that hold meaning as well for today.

I leave you there for tonight, and I will complete the stations tomorrow.

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