Good Friday

I wake up early, 4:30 a.m. early, and carry Maya from the bedroom in one hand and my iPad and Kindle in the other to the kitchen, quietly closing the bedroom door behind me. I retrieve my jacket from the front closet and pull it on in a way I’ve learned to do while carrying a Yorkie. At the back door, I slip my feet into low UGG-like boots and nudge the door open with my shoulder.

It’s cold. One more day, they tell us, before spring-like temperatures will settle over southern Saskatchewan. I’m hungry for early mornings when can sit out here with a mug of hot tea and let Maya wander around in the yard. I imagine pots filled with flowers on the deck and trees around the perimeter of our yard in full leaf. There are lilacs and crabapple trees, others too, that I don’t know the name of because they don’t have labels around their stem. (I’m grateful for the previous owners who left labels from the nursery on some trees.)

Not yet, though. I watch Maya tend to her business and take a short wander around the area in the middle of the yard where the snow is flat enough to walk safely. She meanders toward where I’m standing near the stairs and stops, waiting for me to pick her up and carry her up the stairs to the deck. Maybe when it warms up, she’ll run up the stairs by herself; for now, I’m happy to help her.

I turn the kettle on to brew a mug of the hazelnut chocolate tea I’ve grown accustomed to over the winter. While I wait for it to boil, I measure out kibble for Maya and mix it with a bit of canned food before setting it down on her placemat at the end of the counter. When the tea has steeped long enough, I carry my mug into my woman cave and settle into the wing chair in the corner.

It’s Good Friday, and I’m thankful for the gift of extra time to pray and read this morning. There’s no need to get Makiya off to school and Gerry’s fighting a cold, so I expect him to stay in bed later than normal. When she finishes her breakfast, Maya curls up in her little bed in the living room. It’s just me in the quiet solitude of this early morning; I invite the divine to join me and settle into a time of prayer.

Hours have passed, and it’s early afternoon. Gerry is putting together the galvanized raised garden beds that were delivered yesterday and I’m imagining them in place in the backyard filled with green growing things. Makiya is downstairs and Maya is once again snoozing in her bed.

Soon, we’ll go to church and reflect on the significance of this holy day with our church family. Sunday’s coming. I’ve seen memes on social media on past Good Fridays inviting one to look past the solemnness of this day to resurrection Sunday. In fact, I have probably shared one a time or two. This year, the triviality of memes feels like a grain of sand in my shoe. Instead, I linger, leaning into the reality of this day and a love I struggle to comprehend. It is a somber day. A holy day. And one I don’t want to rush through without careful contemplation.

The celebration of Easter Sunday is coming, and it will be joyous. But just now it’s still Friday and love is being poured out.