Funny Guy Friday... What's so funny about Good Friday?

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     I hope that everyone had a blessed Holy Week. I know that we did.
     It started with Spy Wednesday.
     What's that? You've never heard of Spy Wednesday? Good, because neither had I until this year.
     Spy Wednesday is a fake part of Holy Week made up by my lovely wife... or maybe her friend Sam. As you may know, it was on Wednesday that Judas accepted the silver in exchange for double-crossing Jesus.
     From the looks of things, you call to mind Spy Wednesday by dressing up like spies, complete with black outfits and sunglasses; you know, just like old Judas did way back when. Apparently, you are supposed to be mindful not to be duplicitous in your own life. But, I must admit, the kids looked pretty cool all decked out in their spy gear.

     After that, we eased our way into Holy Thursday, or as I refer to it, the Longest Mass of the Year Thursday. That moniker is certainly not intended as a negative, just an observation that the Mass is long. It has to be, because there is just so much going on.
     First, there is a regular Mass, complete with two choirs, washing of the feet, and a grand installation of the new altar servers. If that isn't enough, we end the whole shebang with hundreds of parishioners in a silent Eucharistic procession up about a hundred stairs to the chapel on the hill. Two and a half hours of a sublime, super sacred service to get our hearts ready for Easter.
     Every Holy Thursday I am reminded of the time that I was selected to have my feet washed. It was more than twenty years ago when I was part of an RCIA program coming into the church. I was asked by the RCIA leader, if I wouldn't mind having my feet washed by the priest on Holy Thursday.
     Of course, I did not mind; and of course, there was no way that I was going into that with dirty feet. I must have scrubbed my feet three or four times before that Mass, donning new socks just in case I missed a spot. Washing was the last thing that the Priest had to do to my feet.
     In fact, my feet were so clean, that you could have eaten off of them. I am not saying that you would have wanted to... I'm just saying that you could have... if you'd wanted to.
     After Holy Thursday, comes... you guessed it... Good Friday.
     Besides Easter, Good Friday may be the holiest day of the Lenten season. Every year, we attend the Stations of the Cross. If you are a regular reader of FGF, you know that we have our regular pew, in our regular section of the church... the late section.
     On this particular Friday, Matthew was serving, so we arrived extra early. Instead of heading to the late section, Cheryl picked a different locale... the last pew of the church, in the middle, right near where the priest and the altar servers begin their procession. I was very uncomfortable in this new section, but I obliged and took my seat. I was at the end of the pew and Cheryl was in the middle.
     The church is pretty austere on Good Friday, with the crucifix and the statues of the Holy Family all covered with purple cloth. It is a solemn time.
     Who knew that the priest announces the start of the Stations by knocking on the back of the last pew? He approached the pew where Cheryl was sitting and as he bent down with his arm extended, readying himself to begin, it happened. Cheryl reached out and gave him a fist bump. That's right boys and girls... instead of being mindful of the most solemn hour of the year... Cheryl thought that the priest was getting fired up for the Stations of the Cross. The rest of us were preparing our hearts for Jesus' crucifixion, and apparently Cheryl was preparing for a baseball game. I could have sworn I heard her say:
     Whadda ya say babe, have a day up there. Stay hot, stay hot, now. Whadda ya say, bud!
     Yeah, yeah, yeah... It was a simple misunderstanding.
     Now if I had done something like that, I would have been distraught. I would have spent the entire Stations praying that nobody saw my little fist bump with the priest. While alone in the car, I would have screamed at myself like a child:
     I am such an idiot! Why would the priest fist bump me! Me... of all people... the village idiot. Dumb Dumb Dumb Dumb Dumb! I ought to fist bump my own face!
     Cheryl, on the other hand, embraces the story and tells anyone that will listen. I just wish she would take herself a little bit more seriously so I could make fun of her by telling this story! What fun is it if she laughs along? In her most sing-songy voice, she chuckles and says,
     I know, isn't that funny? Why would he be fist bumping me on Good Friday? What will we do next... a chest bump on his way down the aisle at the end of a good homily? hee hee hee ha ha ha.
     Whatever.
     Once, during an administrative hearing, I was making the point that my client's actions were an aberration, but instead, I said that his actions were an abomination. I did not sleep for a week. Why can't she be more like I?
     The next day, on Holy Saturday, we had no plans to attend church, but then a very good friend advised he was becoming a Catholic at the Easter Vigil at his own church that evening. Cheryl immediately volunteered that we had nothing going on and that we wouldn't miss it. As they left, she was reminded by... well... by everyone else in the family... that we were already going to my nephew's birthday dinner that evening. We actually bought a gift and everything.
     Change of plans. Cheryl and Grace would attend the Vigil, and the boys and I would hit the party scene.
     Now, I did not attend the Vigil, so I can only report what I was told.
     It was an enjoyable ceremony. Bilingual. Complete with a Mariachi Band. I had never heard of a Mariachi Band at a Catholic Mass, and now I'm worried that our church might add yet another to the manifold choirs we already have... and further prolong those Epiphany Masses.
      I will say that the Vigil Mass made quite an impression on Cheryl. For three days, she walked around the house singing classic Easter songs to the tunes of La Cucaracha and the Mexican Hat Dance!
      We ended the week with Easter Sunday. Every Easter Sunday, I lament the fact that we have to leave forty minutes early to get a seat... even in the late section. I guess I should be joyful that people are attending Mass, but I'm usually not. I leave that up to Cheryl... everything is joyful to her. Fist bumps... Mariachi Bands... self-deprecating stories all come to mind. Anyway, I was a bit frosty that we had to cut our egg hunt short to get ready for church.
      I became further agitated when all the newcomers didn't know the words to the prayers. About a year ago, the church decided to tweak the words to many of the regular prayers. Despite four weeks of explanation from our pastor about why they made these changes, I am still in the dark. Something about something and blah blah blah. Here is what I know... changes were made and I had more stuff to memorize.
     Well, if you have not attended Mass since last Easter you may not be aware of the changes. As a
result, you say the old prayers and in the process, you confuse people like me. Midway through the blessed Easter Mass, I turned to Cheryl and said, It is amateur hour here at Sacred Heart.
     Either my wife agreed... or it just struck her as funny... or she simply found joy in my comment. She burst out in laughter. Half the church singing and also with you while the other half is singing and with your spirit. 
     At this point, I was hoping the Mariachi Band would make a grand entrance and bring some order back to the Mass.
     We finished up the day by hosting family and friends with a wonderful Easter dinner at our house, complete with grilled lamb and a fun-filled Easter egg hunt for the kids.
     Cheryl and I lay in bed that night unable to recall the last time we had had such a wonderful Easter weekend. I thought it the perfect moment to draw her close. Tenderly, I reached for her. I extended my arm, and naturally... she fist bumped me. Of course, she did.
     It was just a simple misunderstanding.