Good Friday, 1956
Dear Diary
Tonight was Good Friday Communion service at St. Marys, and I think my heart will never be quite the same.
Robert picked us up at the mailbox just as the sun was beginning to slip behind the bare trees. Sister Mary Claire was holding the meditation book, and Mini jumped into the pickup like she knew it was an important day. There was a chill in the air, the kind that makes you wrap your sweater tighter, but it felt right somehow. Chilly, still, and a little bit heavy—like the earth itself knew today was the day our Savior died.
When we got to church, even though we were early, the pews were already filled. Everyone seemed quieter than usual. No greetings, no whispers. Just a kind of hushed sorrow. Father had fixed the stove, and Sister, Robert and I sat in our usual spot near it with Mini curled at our feet. We opened the meditation and read it quietly to ourselves.
Jesus said, “It is finished,” and bowed His head and died.
The words on the page felt heavier than normal. Not like a story—but like something real that was happening all over again, right there inside my heart. The meditation said Jesus didn’t die because death was stronger than Him, but because love made Him choose to die. He gave Himself, like a lamb, silent and willing, for me.
I could hardly breathe when I read the part about how His arms stretched out on the cross were saying, “I love you.” And how His whole Passion speaks the language of love. I think I read that line three times. Sister glanced at me and nodded slowly. She knew.
We received Holy Communion at the service, and even though there was no Mass, I felt the Lord come into my heart just the same. I knelt down after, and it was like everything in me was quiet. No words. Just full. I couldn’t explain it even if I tried. My heart felt like it was holding Jesus Himself.
On the ride home, I didn’t say much. None of us did. Mini rested her chin on my knee. Sister stared out the window, and Robert just drove, careful and slow like always. I just kept thinking about His Sacred Heart—how it was opened even after He died, so there’d be room for me to come close. I wanted to stay there forever.
It was hard to read the part about my own sins and how often I take back the heart I say I gave to Jesus. But tonight I meant it. I gave it again, and I want Him to keep it this time.
Dear Jesus,
Tonight I don’t have many words. Just my heart.
You died for me. You gave everything for me.
Let me never forget that kind of love.
Keep me near Your cross, near Your open side.
Let Your Precious Blood wash me clean and give me strength to love You back.
Thank You for giving Yourself to me in Communion, even on this sorrowful day.
I believe You are truly in my heart, and I want to stay in Yours.
Please help me live for You always.
I love You, Jesus.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
Tonight was Good Friday Communion service at St. Marys, and I think my heart will never be quite the same.
Robert picked us up at the mailbox just as the sun was beginning to slip behind the bare trees. Sister Mary Claire was holding the meditation book, and Mini jumped into the pickup like she knew it was an important day. There was a chill in the air, the kind that makes you wrap your sweater tighter, but it felt right somehow. Chilly, still, and a little bit heavy—like the earth itself knew today was the day our Savior died.
When we got to church, even though we were early, the pews were already filled. Everyone seemed quieter than usual. No greetings, no whispers. Just a kind of hushed sorrow. Father had fixed the stove, and Sister, Robert and I sat in our usual spot near it with Mini curled at our feet. We opened the meditation and read it quietly to ourselves.
Jesus said, “It is finished,” and bowed His head and died.
The words on the page felt heavier than normal. Not like a story—but like something real that was happening all over again, right there inside my heart. The meditation said Jesus didn’t die because death was stronger than Him, but because love made Him choose to die. He gave Himself, like a lamb, silent and willing, for me.
I could hardly breathe when I read the part about how His arms stretched out on the cross were saying, “I love you.” And how His whole Passion speaks the language of love. I think I read that line three times. Sister glanced at me and nodded slowly. She knew.
We received Holy Communion at the service, and even though there was no Mass, I felt the Lord come into my heart just the same. I knelt down after, and it was like everything in me was quiet. No words. Just full. I couldn’t explain it even if I tried. My heart felt like it was holding Jesus Himself.
On the ride home, I didn’t say much. None of us did. Mini rested her chin on my knee. Sister stared out the window, and Robert just drove, careful and slow like always. I just kept thinking about His Sacred Heart—how it was opened even after He died, so there’d be room for me to come close. I wanted to stay there forever.
It was hard to read the part about my own sins and how often I take back the heart I say I gave to Jesus. But tonight I meant it. I gave it again, and I want Him to keep it this time.
Dear Jesus,
Tonight I don’t have many words. Just my heart.
You died for me. You gave everything for me.
Let me never forget that kind of love.
Keep me near Your cross, near Your open side.
Let Your Precious Blood wash me clean and give me strength to love You back.
Thank You for giving Yourself to me in Communion, even on this sorrowful day.
I believe You are truly in my heart, and I want to stay in Yours.
Please help me live for You always.
I love You, Jesus.
Amen.
Love,
Kathy
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