Good Fri­day is the most sig­nif­i­cant day of the year on the Chris­t­ian cal­en­dar. As a child grow­ing up at the cor­ner of Joyeau and Bushe Streets in Curepe, I still re­mem­ber my cousins car­ry­ing me to the near­by Our La­dy of Fa­ti­ma RC Church for the Sta­tions of the Cross ser­vice.

My moth­er, the con­sum­mate house­wife, would have made hot cross buns the day be­fore and, of course, my sib­lings and I would have sam­pled them the minute they came out of the oven. Our Fri­day lunch would be fish with a fluffy tar­tar sauce, white-coloured foods, like white pro­vi­sion, gub gub or li­ma beans, and white rice, fol­lowed by co­conut ice cream.

My sis­ters and I would take de­light in pour­ing some egg white in­to a glass of wa­ter and hold­ing it up to the sun to ob­serve what shape it would change in­to. A church steeple or cross was the most wel­comed, as this would in­di­cate that we would pros­per and be blessed for the rest of the year.

The re­main­der of the day I would spend with the neigh­bour­hood boys, fin­ish­ing our kites—from lit­tle chee-kee-chongs to huge, elab­o­rate mad bulls—to fly on Mon­day. We were of­ten scold­ed if we were too loud and rau­cous, es­pe­cial­ly af­ter lunch un­til 3 pm (when Je­sus was said to be on the Cross).

I re­mem­ber one boy putting pieces of ra­zor blades on the tail of his mad bull kite. He got cut, and lat­er got a “cut tail” from his moth­er, who be­lieved that if he was cut on Good Fri­day, it would take long to heal. She was very dis­traught over this su­per­sti­tious be­lief.

The tra­di­tion of not draw­ing blood still holds to­day, as some pa­tients try to de­lay surgery on Good Fri­day.

Many peo­ple al­so avoid the sea on Good Fri­day due to a mix­ture of re­li­gious tra­di­tion and folk­lore. Some be­lieve swim­ming in the sea on this day will bring bad luck, can turn one in­to a fish, or even cause drown­ing. Many be­lieve the sea is rough, treach­er­ous, or “craves dead bod­ies” on the day Je­sus was cru­ci­fied.

Oth­ers think this most sa­cred day should be spent in qui­et re­flec­tion, church ser­vices, and prayer—not on leisure ac­tiv­i­ties like beach trips.

Good Fri­day tra­di­tions al­so in­clud­ed the beat­ing of the bobolee, a stuffed ef­fi­gy made in mem­o­ry of Ju­das Is­car­i­ot, the dis­ci­ple who be­trayed Christ. I re­mem­ber us­ing old clothes stuffed with news­pa­per and tied with twine. Many broom han­dles got bro­ken through­out the years beat­ing our bobolees.

In parts of Latin Amer­i­ca, Eu­rope and the Philip­pines, the “Burn­ing of Ju­das” oc­curs, much like the Hin­du tra­di­tion of burn­ing Rawan at Di­vali time.

Through the years, bobolees have evolved from rep­re­sen­ta­tions of Ju­das to ef­fi­gies of pub­lic fig­ures with whom the pub­lic is ag­griev­ed. I sin­cere­ly hope some of our po­lit­i­cal fig­ures have de­vel­oped thick skins. These pub­lic beat­ings can be viewed as cul­tur­al fun or cathar­tic re­leas­es.

This year, the world be­yond our shores feels es­pe­cial­ly heavy. War con­tin­ues to dis­place fam­i­lies and frac­ture na­tions.

Eco­nom­ic hard­ship weighs on many house­holds, in­clud­ing right here at home. Ris­ing costs, un­cer­tain­ty about the fu­ture, and the qui­et strain of dai­ly sur­vival have left many feel­ing anx­ious, weary, and at times, over­whelmed.

I see these strug­gles re­flect­ed in the lives of in­di­vid­u­als car­ry­ing in­vis­i­ble bur­dens—grief that has not found a voice, fear that lingers be­neath the sur­face, and ex­haus­tion that no amount of rest seems to ease. Good Fri­day, with its fo­cus on suf­fer­ing, may res­onate deeply with those who feel their own cross­es are too heavy to bear.

Yet, Good Fri­day is not the end of the sto­ry. It is the shad­ow be­fore first light. It re­minds us that even in our deep­est sor­row, some­thing sa­cred is still un­fold­ing.

We may, like Je­sus, cry out in our mo­ments of aban­don­ment, “My God, my God, why have you for­sak­en me?”

Feel­ing the weight of all we car­ry. But East­er whis­pers what Good Fri­day can­not yet re­veal—that suf­fer­ing is not our fi­nal name. With­in us lives a qui­et re­silience, a strength that ris­es, even when we be­lieve we can­not.

So, to any­one walk­ing through their own dark­ness: you are not alone. This pain, though heavy, is not for­ev­er. Hold on, even if on­ly gen­tly. Reach out, even if on­ly in a whis­per. Light is com­ing.

And as this Good Fri­day fades in­to night, may we rest in that frag­ile, faith­ful hope—that be­yond the cross, be­yond the si­lence, be­yond the grief… there is al­ways res­ur­rec­tion.