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FOUR EASTER STORIES -- GOOD FRIDAY

As the son of American missionaries in the 1960s, who went to Christian boarding school, I grew up with devotions, church, Bible study, youth groups as a big part of my family and social life. I had a hard time with Bible studies because I a) I never really liked being told what to I had to believe and b) I was the type who could point out possible different interpretations and possibilities of logic and drive the study leader crazy. (Being polite I rarely did this). Lately, I've been trying something different. I'm a storyteller—don't necessarily want to be, but that's what I am—so I'm thinking through issues of faith through the lens of this gift, or curse. It's the Easter season, and I'm writing a cycle of four stories. These aren't fully fleshed and polished stories, but more like sketches, driving to get down quickly what it is I'm getting a sense of. Here is story three, based on Good Friday. The final one will be in the next post. FOUR EASTER STORIES GOOD FRIDAY Fridays at seven we meet in an empty basement store at the West Wood stripmall. The owner lets us use it for free. One of his kids is the program out east. We're the usual mixed bag, living best we can on the suburb edges of the city. There's Shirley in the same house dress she'd been watching TV soaps all afternoon. Ted, straight from the garage. Moses and Manny, brothers who make a living as handymen, no job too small, a lot of jobs too big. Shivelle and her baby—she runs a home salon and does okay. Other regulars and some irregulars plus strangers who wander in for meeting, having seen the sign or an ad. And then there was Mr. Upscale. I didn't know his name, not until the last week, because he never introduced himself, but that's how he was dressed. Fancy clothes, the kind that get chauffeured and not rumpled in the subway. Shoes shined to an inch of glory. The first week he drove in an old rusty Corolla. I know because I saw it. I was a bit late myself. I knew he was there for the meeting, but when he stepped out of the car I was surprised. It was the clothes. He should have been driving something fancy. I saw him pause on the stairs and square his shoulders. Like he was making a big decision. His first meeting. Like he was finally squaring up to the demon. We've all been through it. I gave him a pat on the back. He whirled around like I was gonna assault him for his wallet. "We don't hurry up there ain't gonna be seats left," I said giving him a wink. That meeting he didn't introduce himself. Sitting in the back row, twitchy, like the folding metal chair wasn't up to his standard of plush seating. But quiet and respectful and attentive. Didn't say a word. Looked at all of us like we hold the secret. Which we don't. It ain't any secret. What it is, we need help. We can't do it ourselves. When he left he dropped a buck in the basket for coffee he didn't drink. Second meeting, he walked. Same upscale clothes. Like he was going to church. This time the speaker asks if he has anything to say, and he says, "No, thank you." The fourth meeting, I finally thought he was gonna break. He had that haggard look. Clothes looked baggy on him. I seen it on some people who think they can do it themselves. They trying cold turkey, thinking they can do it themselves. Their pride good enough. But he leaves in a hurry. Fifth week, he's still in the same clothes, but he's unshaven and a whole world of worry has cracked his face. This time he stands. "I'm Nick," he says. "I am not an alcoholic. This is not denial and it's not to say anything about you people except I'm here because you know something important about life that others don't. Just over a year ago I was a highly paid executive at a company. I lived in a very nice home in an exclusive gate community. I and my family—wife and two boys—went to a church more like a cathedral. Then the economy went bust. I was fired. My savings vanished, an operation for one of my boys. We lost the house. We rented. We kept scaling down. Down down down. We're now living in motel out on President." President. Those roach motels, where the illegals live, the migrants on welfare. He paused and looked around at us. "You're thinking maybe why I come to these meetings. I've always believed there's a God. Always went to church. This past month, this cellar has been my church, this seven o'clock meeting has been my holy service. You all believe, in one or another. That's why you're here. My old church, they'd spit at me, I think. I lost them a lot of money. "It's Easter weekend. Friday, today. A lot of folks call it Good Friday. Why Good? Because Sunday is coming. But let me tell you something. When Jesus was on the cross, crying in agony of spirit my god my god why have you forsaken me? what was good about it? It was a black Friday for him. Heaven sealed, the world closed up like a fist against him. We forget that. We know the end of the story. We say, well, Sunday morning, the tomb is empty. Jesus didn't know that. His world was black and dark and breaking him." Another pause. Nobody said anything. I've never heard it so quiet in there. Nick gripped the back of the chair in front of him. "It's Friday for me, people. Day after tomorrow, Sunday, is my youngest son's birthday. He's going to be twelve. I promised him that before his birthday we will be moving out of the motel back to home. Any place that's a home. But it isn't going to happen. Tomorrow we're being evicted. I haven't told him. I don't know where we're going. I don't know what we're going to do." He dropped his hands. What he said next, he said quietly, but I still hear the words like it was yesterday. I'll never forget them. "It's Friday," Nick said. "Jesus is dead on the cross, God is silent, and Sunday is not coming. Thank you for letting me share." He dropped a buck in the basket for the coffee he didn't drink and disappeared out the door. That next day I went to the motels, looking for him. I didn't know what I could do, but I went anyway. "Already gone," the manager of the Eden said. "Couple hours ago, on the bus. Don't know where." He shook his head and sighed. "Damn shame. Good decent people, I let them have a week free but I ain't running a charity." After that, I kept my eyes open on the trains, around the city, but I never saw Nick again. But I think a lot about him. Especially Easter time. A lot of us have our black Fridays when God is no longer there. But we always think, not to worry, Sunday's coming. I hope that Sunday came for Nick and his family. But I don't know. I can't be sure. It's not a guarantee. We like happy endings, but that don't mean we get to have them. I don't tell anybody this, but I think that sometimes for some people, decent people too, Friday is forever, there is no Sunday coming, that heaven is sealed and the world is closed up like a fist against them.