Good Friday

A difficult day. It’s not fun. It’s not joyful. Movies and sidewalk chalk and cupcake decorating are out-of-place. The darkest day in the history of ever.

I know what’s coming, but…

Children don’t really understand. Maybe, they do. Kinda. Sorta. Not really.

I didn’t.

School is always out on Good Friday. Whether the school calendar said so, didn’t really matter. At least, not to my mother.

“We won’t be going to school on Good Friday. It’s not a school day.”

And so, Margaret and Jeffrey Griffin never ever went to school on Good Friday. I have news for the world. Jeffrey, Sophia and Miles Griffin will never ever go to school on Good Friday. That ain’t gonna happen.

Somewhere along the way, the people at Maple Springs United Methodist thought is was a good idea to have a Good Friday service.

Great. Another church service. I was less than excited. Friday lunchtime. A handful of people sat in the sanctuary. The preacher did his thing. We sang slow, boring hymns. It didn’t last long, maybe thirty minutes.

The altar and the cross were draped in black cloth.

For me, the best part was lunch in the fellowship hall after the service. Pat Craver served grilled cheese sandwiches. Elinor Starling made vegetable soup.

The Good Friday service at Maple Springs continued for years. A lot of years. It might be happening right now. I don’t know.

Eventually, I started to understand. I noticed nobody smiled during the Good Friday service.

I tried to say something mature and wise. “Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

I should have been quiet.

Sometimes, it is impossible to look past the loss. The grief is overwhelming.

Mel Gibson made the movie. “The Passion Of the Christ.” Alright. The world was paying attention.

Somebody at church thought we should gather in Craven Hall and watch the movie on the big screen. Good Friday night. Well, fine.

Are we gonna have soup and grilled cheese for dinner, too?

I had no idea. Preachers have a way of painting pretty pictures with words. Nothing I had ever heard or read or sang had prepared me for what I saw.

Are we really capable of such?

I’d always thought the crucifixion was brutal, but I had not visualized the pain. The agony. The rejection. The guilt.

Nobody smiled that night.

It finally made sense. All those noontime Friday services on Reynolda Road.

It’s not a show. I’m not being dramatic. Good Friday is hard. I don’t pick. I don’t laugh. We don’t play games.

I hurt. It takes a Herculean effort to climb out of the bed and be even minimally pleasant with my family.

I relive every harsh word I’ve spoken. Every ill thought. Every flash of anger. Every poor choice. Every betrayal.

How is this a good day?

“Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

Hush, Jeffrey. Hush.