Good Friday

Jesus is crucified, and I’m complaining about tacos.

I’m driving with the sunroof open, beaming in the springtime breeze. A car cuts me off, and I blare my horn and call them an idiot. 

Jesus is placed on trial, and I curse out a minivan.

I sit in sweet music as I ruminate on the talents of my colleagues and the beauty of my church. I roll my eyes at the text message that flashes across my screen.

Jesus has been sentenced to death, and I laugh at a mean joke.

My heart is bursting at the seams, I cannot contain the love I have for my best friend’s children. I return to my desk and wallow in self-pity for the paper I have to write.

Jesus begins carrying his cross, and I whine about my almost-free education.

Our home is filled with laughter and joy, supported by strong beams, soft blankets, and sweet memories. I slam the door in my sister’s face after a meaningless quarrel.

Jesus reaches out to his grieving mother, and I bicker incessantly with mine.

I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for this gift of writing, determined to use this precious gift I’ve been bestowed. I tear myself down out of shame and insecurity when I don’t consistently produce content.

Jesus is stripped of his clothes, beaten, and nailed to the cross, and I bastardize a blessing.

It’s the morning of Good Friday, and I order breakfast tacos to kick off the holiday weekend. I send a scathing review and declare the gesture ruined when their delivery is delayed.

Jesus is crucified, and I’m complaining about tacos.