Good Friday, 1958

I can't say with absolute certainty that 1958 was the year I first "got" the significance of Good Friday, but by then I'd made my first confession and my First Communion. So I had, no doubt, been well-versed in the events of Holy Week.

Mom had been a Catholic all her life. Dad was a protestant, but he drove us to church every Sunday morning and made sure we all went to Catholic schools (he converted when I was 9). So Mom decided how we would spend Good Friday, and inevitably that led to St. Mary's Church.

We'd arrive well ahead of the start of the Good Friday service so we could sit, in silence, while Mom said the rosary. I suppose we squirmed a good bit, too, but all it took was a look from Mom to tell us our souls would be in danger of eternal damnation if we didn't settle down.

On those rare occasions when we didn't accompany Mom to church on Good Friday, we were told to keep silent between noon and 3 p.m., the time during which Christ hung on the cross. We couldn't eat anything then, either. In fact, we weren't supposed to eat much at all that day. We couldn't wait until 3:01.

I'll be going to church this afternoon. I'll even be singing with the choir as we mark another Good Friday. I might even try to keep silent for awhile before I go, and if I eat anything for lunch it'll probably be no more than a carton of yogurt.

I'm no saint. I'm just the daughter of a woman of faith.