Mtr Mary Trainor

Dear friend,

This day is all too familiar for many. This day between one reality and the next.

This day—whether the day after the storming out, or when the kids shipped off to school, or the death of something, someone—this day can be one of shock-borne numbness.

Good Friday, for me, ushers in an all-too-familiar dullness that follows major loss. I can well imagine those nearest and dearest to Jesus stumbling about, sitting in front of food but not eating, speaking in lifeless voices, saying very few words at that—filled with emotion that hasn’t quite become tears.

***

The night my father died in the hospital, I was staying over with my mother at their home. The call came just after midnight. He was gone, and the staff who called asked if we wanted to see him. 

Sounds like a simple question, but in the middle of the night, trying to rouse my near-deaf mother, trying to help her understand what happened, and then to find out if she wanted to see him. None of that was simple.

And then that next day. Shuffling along. Making decisions while on something akin to autopilot.

***

This day, two thousand years ago, I suspect Jesus’ mother and friends were on some form of auto-pilot, too, feeling things nowhere near ready for words. Pacing aimlessly. Empty inside. Good Fridays bring us to days like that.

***

But this day, this particular day, is different from all other days after loss. Those who loved Jesus then did not know it yet, but we do. This day is only a preamble.

True joy is just a day away.

Mtr Mary