Good Friday

The week had been harried, to say the least. Deadlines at work (granted, some of them were self-imposed), demands of the household, the physical stresses of supporting the new little passenger in my body, the day-to-day tug of war of sharing the planet (like the guy who cut me off in traffic and then flashed me half a peace sign)--all of it was coming to a full boil as noon approached, and it was time to hurry to church just in time to hear the end of the Good Friday services.

I was not mentally prepared. It was hot, and heat and pregnant bellies don't mix. Never being one to wilt in the sun before, I couldn't understand all the sympathetic faces when I'd tell those who ask that the baby is due in August. I hate to be cold, but until recently couldn't comprehend being too hot. Today, trembling and sweaty as I walked through the parking lot under the midday sun, I understood. And so it was with a rather ungrateful heart that I slipped into the pew with my daughter and husband.

The sanctuary was dark. The chancel was draped in black cloth, and the usual paraments--purple cloth during Lent, Green for Pentecost, etc., were gone. The impressive stained-glass window that arches up to the cathedral ceiling was dark and lifeless. The ministers wore simple black suits and dresses, none of the usual robes and colorful stoles that hail the attire of the clergy of our church.

Rev. Mooty spoke quietly. As he finished his prayer, a haunting cello seemed to fill the air from nowhere. Behind the chancel wall, I caught a glimpse of the cellist's arm moving gracefully back and forth, guiding the bow through each mornful note, as the piano joined the lament. Some quiet words later, our friend stood to give the meditation. He began, and then hesitated, and then the story emerged: he was awaiting tests to determine whether he remains cancer-free. Suddenly, the concept of death was not some remote thing that played out in scripted fashion in accordance with a religious holiday; it was a possibility for a rather young man with a vivacious wife and cherubic little girl, just as it has been for all of humanity, only most of the time, we choose not to recognize that fact of life. At least, I do. But as I sat listening, it occurred to me that to ignore death is to somehow miss something of the splendor of life. In the bitter horror of his death, we see the magnificence of his life. The sunrise gets its splendor from the darkness from which it rises. To respect death is to value life.

I could feel the little one moving inside me, and looked down at my daughter's long hair across my lap as she napped. It was then that life seemed to slow down for a moment, and in the dark, quiet cool of the sanctuary, we could all breathe again.

It is not finished.

Good Friday.