Good Friday Memory

Every Good Friday, I am reminded of one that happened many years ago when I was in the fifth grade.

That day, my sister and I were in my parents’ bedroom while my mother was making the bed. I don’t remember exactly how the conversation began, but somehow we started talking about Good Friday. We'd both gone to catechism for years and knew the story of Holy Week, but that afternoon I remember feeling wound up and anxious.

We sat together on the bed as my mother explained how Jesus died on Good Friday and all that led up to that day. Then, as she finished speaking, something remarkable happened.

The large, heavy crucifix that hung on the wall came crashing down.

It had been hanging above a fireplace that no longer worked. It fell onto the mantle below, knocking over framed pictures and scattering everything in its path.

We all froze. It wasn’t just the noise or the surprise. It was the timing.

It wasn’t that the crucifix had come loose. It was something else.

On a day that represents loss, sacrifice, and love, it felt as though we were being reminded of the goodness of God and of the mystery of our faith.

I will never forget that day or the feeling in that bedroom.

Some things aren’t meant to be explained. I believe they are meant to be remembered and treasured.

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