Waiting for Jesus to die
When I was growing up, Good Friday was all about waiting. Although it was never said out loud, it was a given that we should we should not expect to be allowed to ask friend over or go anywhere. As long as we lived in California, I would just go outside and play, but once we had to move to Sweden, boredom set in.
Until my grandfather died, Easter was spent at my grandparents' house outside of Falköping, in a little village without so much as a corner store. If the weather was nice, you could take a walk across the pastures, sidestepping cowpatties, or climb to the top of Odensberg. My grandfather, a retired Baptist pastor, spent the day reading the newspaper until 1 o'clock sharp, when my grandmother would serve a three-course meal. That would be followed by waiting for another couple of hours for coffee served with seven kinds of cookies, then yet another wait for what they called "supper": a light meal consisting of an omelette or just sandwiches. If I'm not mistaken, there would be more coffee and cookies before bedtime. In bad weather, I could choose between a good book or watching Jesus Christ superstar on TV.
That was our Good Friday and it was inevitably followed by a Saturday spent driving around the countryside to see various art exhibits or the cranes at Lake Hornborga. So is it any wonder that my lasting impression of Good Friday is sitting around with my grandparents, waiting for Jesus to die?
I'm not religious, but to this day, I still refrain from making plans for Good Friday.