Good Friday has always been the day I remember more from my childhood than Easter or even Christmas. Easter was egg hunts and Christmas was gifts, both were joyous days. Not so Good Friday, it was always the day of sacrifice, and sadness. Mostly, as a child, it was a day of torture.
The day started with getting up early to go to Church, and listen to a sad, and very long sermon, but that wasn't the torture. The torture began when we got home.
Before Church, my Mom would start the dough for buns. We would work all day, baking buns, making cabbage rolls, and perogies. The smells were amazing, my tastebuds were primed, and my stomach was growling all day. The torture was that we fasted, not because the Church demanded it, but because it was a family tradition. We were allowed all the water we wanted, and one bun, fresh out of the oven. If we really whined, Mom let us put some butter on the bun. Believe me, we savoured every single, slow bite of that bun, nothing in life had ever tasted so good, so sweet.
Nothing in life, no sermon, no lecture, no book, has ever made me understand the meaning of the sacrifice Jesus made on Good Friday, like fasting on Good Friday, surrounded by food, delicious smells and not being able to have any of it. From a childs perspective, this clarified what suffering meant, what others go through day after day.
Sure it was a small thing to do, fast for one day, but this small bit of torture, was a big lesson on the true meaning of Good Friday.
Now, I have to get that last batch of cinnamon buns out of the oven, and yes, my mouth is watering, but it's a small bit of torture.
8 comments:
What a great bit of insight into your childhood, Hunter! I can almost smell those buns.
We just had to abstain from meat. It didn't seem like that much of a sacrifice.
Thank you, Joanne. If I could send you some of those buns, I would.
My kids aren't too pleased that I am keeping with the family tradition, but I hope they will appreciate it when they have families.
Hunter, your experiences sound very familiar except that my mother also cooked kielbasa (remember, no meat!) the whole day too since she gets her food blessed on Holy Saturday. I took a bit of a different direction with my Easter message this year, over at thepolitic.com, but hope I can return the favour. God Bless!
Matthew, don't even get me started on the kielbasa, it's too much torture!
Funny how our fondest memories are related to Christian and ethnic traditions that the whole family enjoys, yet we all identify as Canadians.
Perhaps if you thought less about your suppossed torture on Good Friday and more about the daily suffering of millions on God's green earth, the world would be a better place. A better place for all, not just spolied white bread Albertans.
Anon 6:21, How bitter. I suspect you have no family traditions to share.
You also totally miss the whole point of the post. My "little bit of torture", as a child, opened my eyes to others and the suffering they go through, day after day, it's right there in the post if you had read it.
Thanks, Hunter, for your childhood memories of Good Friday. Being of British origin, on both sides of my family, I'm afraid there were no "ethnic" traditions, like perogies or psankes, though we occasionally coloured eggs with dye from Woolworth's!
(So, I started a tradition with my children of baking braided bread on Holy Saturday, and giving it as gifts to others in our community--keeping one for my family, of course.)
When I was young, Good Friday always seemed to be grey and cold, the tree branches bare, very few flowers, maybe a little green peeking through the earth and, yes, three hours at church.
Very sombre--and still is. It always seems that there is a "stillness" that descends on Good Friday, around the end of the afternoon. The world is waiting...for the return of the Saviour we have so callously killed.
It's off to Easter Vigil tonight, to welcome the Resurrected Christ: Hallelujah! Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Hallelujah!
Happy Easter!
batb
Been Around The Block, good point on how Good Friday is always grey and cold, that's how I remember it too.
Good to see that you started your own family tradition.
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