I woke with a hymn
half-formed on my tongue—
Stricken, smitten, and afflicted—
the kind of song that burrows
into the folds of a child’s memory,
etched deeper by dim lights and heavy rituals
in a Lutheran church that never smiled on Good Friday.
We sang it every year,
never once on any other day.
And though it sounded like mourning,
we were expected to sing—
not from joy,
but from duty.
I remember how strange it felt
to know the notes better when I didn’t try,
how the words came if I let go.
If I forced the melody,
the whole thing unraveled.
Maybe that’s faith, too.
Friday, like clockwork,
my father came home early,
showered,
put on his church clothes—
serious clothes, not the joking kind—
and we went.
The church dimmed itself to dusk,
and so did we.
My mother quiet in her role,
my siblings and I
part of the silent chorus,
humming Disney songs in our heads,
trying not to fidget
while the sanctuary breathed
in reverent hush.
The sermon soft,
the sanctuary still.
No thunder, no spectacle—
just the sorrow
that we were expected to carry
for Him.
We walked out into the dark,
no handshakes, no chatter.
Home, teeth brushed, lights off.
Straight to bed.
And Saturday?
Chores.
Toes scrubbed.
Pastels laid out.
We pretended
nothing had died.
But on Sunday—
oh, Sunday—
the world turned over.
The preacher roared,
“He is risen!”
The crowd replied
like it mattered.
Candy.
Ties.
White gloves.
New shoes.
The pews brimmed with perfume
and the laughter of little girls
who’d never wept for Friday.
We were meant to feel
the joy more sharply
because we had mourned.
The juxtaposition was the point.
Without the cross,
the lilies meant nothing.
At seven or eight,
none of it made sense.
And maybe now,
only slightly more.
But I give it credence—
the sorrow before celebration,
the wound before healing.
A holy arithmetic
that insists
pain must precede joy.
And for those without belief,
what then?
Perhaps the church,
with all its rituals and worn hymns,
still offers something—
not in the theology,
but in the community,
the rhythm,
the flicker of hope
that this life,
this long Friday of a world,
might be bearable
when shared.
Maybe the real resurrection
is simply
making it through today
with someone beside you,
a song on your lips
you didn’t know you remembered.
BB Grey--musings 
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