It was a Friday afternoon. I anticipated lots of fun things for the afternoon and evening. First, a piano lesson with my mom. Then we were to go to a carnival in town. Later, I would spend the night at my friend Joan’s. While at the piano, taking my lesson, I heard the squealing of car brakes and a loud thump. I spied our family dog, Amigo, yelping and running toward the back yard. We lived on a country road and in those days, dogs weren’t fenced in but ran freely. So when a car whizzed by, the dogs chased the cars–I guess protecting their territory. But that was dangerous. We’d had more than one dog miscalculate the distance from the tires of the moving car and be killed. That’s what happened to our golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix dog. He was mortally wounded, and my dad put him out of his pain and misery. Our heartache had just begun.

My sister Eileen and I were particularly close to Amigo and later that evening as we rode the Ferris wheel, Eileen moaned. “This isn’t any fun, I miss Amigo so much. Why did he have to chase that car? Why did he die?”

I had no answer for her. I was just as miserable and only wanted to go to my room and cry and be sad. The carnival rides were only a distraction that didn’t divert my grief at all.  Later, staying at my friend’s house, it wasn’t any better. I just wanted to be at home where I could properly mourn for my loving, friendly dog. I couldn’t forget his painful yelping and then silence.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking on that terrible Friday after the unjust trials their teacher and mentor had to endure. Worse yet, most had deserted him because of their fear of being arrested too. And then. Jesus was dead.

All night long, Jesus faced trials. First with the Sanhedrin–the Supreme court of ancient Israel. Then before Pilate, the Roman leader. To Herod, then back to Pilate who had the Roman authority to sentence him. He’d been beaten. Thrown into a room between trials with his hands tied to the wall. It would have been a sleepless night. He was mocked. Beaten. A crown of thorns was placed on his head. And then he was crucified. Naked. It was in the middle of the day, yet there was darkness. At about three pm, he died. He’d been taken down from the cross, wrapped in burial cloths and placed in a borrowed tomb.

Photo taken in the lower portion of where Jesus was held between trials. Believed to be Caiphas’ basement.

The disciples were afraid. Miserable. Grieving. They didn’t understand. They thought the kingdom was at hand. At last, the invaders of their land would be ousted and they would have their country back under their own rule with Jesus as king. But there was a different plan and they didn’t understand it yet.

I’m sure they wept. Moaned. And asked God why. That’s common for grievers. Grief is hard. There is a terrible weight in our souls that won’t go away. The tears don’t stop. We are miserable just as those disciples and followers of Jesus must have been that Friday that is called Good Friday.

Today, we know the end of the story, but then, the disciples did not. Yet we can empathize with them. We can contemplate the terrible grief and loss they were suffering that Friday. And that’s how I’m going to conclude my blog for today. There will be joy and excitement later in just two days. Next week, I’ll talk about that miracle. But today, let’s remember. And give thanks to God for the supreme sacrifice He made that Friday two thousand years ago.

Listen to the song below that tells us about that Friday. A Friday to remember.

Let’s remember. And on Resurrection Sunday, we can rejoice. But this Friday, we remember.

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