Good Friday
Everyone has the days when sleep just doesn’t want to go away.
I must admit that lately it’s been harder to drag my butt out of bed, especially late in the week. I still haven’t slept past 7:00 since about 1995, but now, I don’t jump up as if I’ve been shot out of a cannon.
Getting old, I guess.
Yesterday morning, I felt partly cloudy, but I was at a client’s office by about 7:30, and I went straight to the coffee pot. I was halfway through the cup when he said:
“Want a coffee?”
“I’m beat,” I said. “Friday takes a month to get here every week.”
“And this is Good Friday!” He said.
I smiled.
“What?”
“Just the mention of ‘Good Friday’ took me back to my altar boy days,” I said.
“You? You were an altar boy?”
We laughed.
“Man, Good Friday was all about the stations of the cross,” I said. “When you’re just a kid, an hour at mass seems like a year. Up, down, prayer, blessing, onto the next station.”
“I was an altar boy too,” the guy confessed. “There are at least 15 stations of the cross, right?”
Sad to say, I wasn’t exactly sure. 15 does sound about right.
“We used to get tips after a wedding or a funeral mass,” the guy said. “Did you?”
I hadn’t thought about that, but we definitely did!
“I felt funny about that,” the guy said.
“At a wedding it was expected,” I said, “but I didn’t hound anyone for three bucks when it was a funeral. I always felt weird taking money from a guy who was burying his grandmother.”
“Did you ever pilfer the wine bottle?” He asked.
“Every altar boy worth his weight in salt sucked down half a bottle of that garbage wine,” I said.
The conversation lagged because we were both trapped in memories of Good Friday’s gone by.
“I’m glad I was an altar boy,” he said. He raised his coffee mug as if he were toasting me. “I’m also pretty happy that I didn’t have one of the molesters as a priest.”
“Amen,” I said.
At least our memories of Good Friday aren’t truly tragic.
We served mass on Holy Saturday too.
Holy Week was a real test of endurance.
I must admit that lately it’s been harder to drag my butt out of bed, especially late in the week. I still haven’t slept past 7:00 since about 1995, but now, I don’t jump up as if I’ve been shot out of a cannon.
Getting old, I guess.
Yesterday morning, I felt partly cloudy, but I was at a client’s office by about 7:30, and I went straight to the coffee pot. I was halfway through the cup when he said:
“Want a coffee?”
“I’m beat,” I said. “Friday takes a month to get here every week.”
“And this is Good Friday!” He said.
I smiled.
“What?”
“Just the mention of ‘Good Friday’ took me back to my altar boy days,” I said.
“You? You were an altar boy?”
We laughed.
“Man, Good Friday was all about the stations of the cross,” I said. “When you’re just a kid, an hour at mass seems like a year. Up, down, prayer, blessing, onto the next station.”
“I was an altar boy too,” the guy confessed. “There are at least 15 stations of the cross, right?”
Sad to say, I wasn’t exactly sure. 15 does sound about right.
“We used to get tips after a wedding or a funeral mass,” the guy said. “Did you?”
I hadn’t thought about that, but we definitely did!
“I felt funny about that,” the guy said.
“At a wedding it was expected,” I said, “but I didn’t hound anyone for three bucks when it was a funeral. I always felt weird taking money from a guy who was burying his grandmother.”
“Did you ever pilfer the wine bottle?” He asked.
“Every altar boy worth his weight in salt sucked down half a bottle of that garbage wine,” I said.
The conversation lagged because we were both trapped in memories of Good Friday’s gone by.
“I’m glad I was an altar boy,” he said. He raised his coffee mug as if he were toasting me. “I’m also pretty happy that I didn’t have one of the molesters as a priest.”
“Amen,” I said.
At least our memories of Good Friday aren’t truly tragic.
We served mass on Holy Saturday too.
Holy Week was a real test of endurance.
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