|Andy Warhol, Crosses, Giclee print, 1981-82|
It is finished.
It is so silent, so sad.
It is a somber quiet day.
I think of his Mom.
And I ache for her.
And today is an achy day, all around.
It is too quiet, too somber.
And yet, of course, not.
And we wait, happily for us, in joyful knowledge and hope, for tomorrow.
But still, today, we wait.
High Holy Day.
The Passion of Christ.
Veneration of the Cross.
Hungry, tired, hard, sad.
An unspeakable, truly, tough day.
Good, yes, but the hardest most unspeakable kind of good.
But yes, glorious good; if unseen as such then, and sometimes now.
Beginning of the Passion.
A hard somber night, leading into a hard day.
Jangled, disjointed, stripping the altar, moving the Blessed Sacrament out of the tabernacle.
I always feel like crying at this service, “Don’t take him!” my heart foolishly calls.
And then it is silent.
And we file out, in the sad silent dark from the now empty church.
He is gone.
It’s Holy Thursday…..so it begins.