As I write this it’s noon my time, on Good Friday. Outside my window the sky is a thick mat of mottled grays. It’s cold here—or what we here in San Diego call cold, anyway.
I don’t like to write on Good Friday. But I thought I’d visit here for a moment, in case any of my dear reader friends happen to stop by for a little Good Friday commiseration.
Hello, friend! Much love to you.
I’m always massively depressed on Good Friday—and am today. Listless. Unmotivated.
My wife Cat took the day off work to do our taxes. She’s in her office right now, figuring and calculating.
Today is all about paying the cost of being alive, I suppose.
I don’t like sharing that I’m depressed today, because I know it can’t help but sound like a kind of bragging, as if the conscious subtext of what I’m saying is, “I’m suffering because I so closely identify with Christ on the Cross. Isn’t it great that I’m always depressed on Good Friday? Aren’t I a good Christian?”
And, God knows, the world has enough Christians telling the world what good Christians they are.
See? Depressed. Again: why I don’t write on Good Friday.
Today, of course, is the nadir of the Christian year. We live, we breathe, we survive this darkness. And then, wonder of wonder, the son rises again.
But that’s two days from now. Does zilch for me today.
Love, love, love to you all, on this blessed, tragic, miserable freakin day.