Good Friday, A Small Bit Of Torture.

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.