The Wound is Where the Light Get’s In

Good Friday mass is two hours long.  We kneel for what I think is half the service.  I like to kneel.  I like how my knees start to go numb after about 10 minutes, eyes closed, and I have to focus on the colors of the backs of my eyelids, morphing purple and blue and gold.  I like humbling myself in this way.

This day…is difficult.

My mystic self spends much of it focusing on the deep pain of the sacrificial love of Christ.  I am filled with a deep grief as I walk into church and see the candles removed, the statues covered, the holy water dried up, everything…gone.  The light of the world gone, I descend into darkness as I kneel with my head in my hands in prayer, covering my tears as the passion is sung in golden resonance by the priest.

I am in silent meditation, time ceases, the homily…I remember little, but I remember this…we show love with a kiss.

The crucifix in brought forth by the priest.  I stay kneeling then rise, with head bowed I approach to kiss the cross in veneration.

“Mommy, where should I kiss Christ?”  my daughter softly whispers to me.

“Wherever you feel called to.”  I respond.

I approach the crucifix and bow low, lean forward and kiss the nail and the wound which it created…gently. I could not kiss any place but his feet.  I wanted to stay there at his feet on my knees.   My lips are greeted with the same gentle response, the light of the world on my lips.  It was the lightest kiss I have given and the lightest kiss I have ever received.  The light of the world in the wound. The gentleness of my Lord’s suffering on my lips.   A gentle suffering, a wound I wanted to place myself in.  All my transgressions in the nail, all my heartbreak in his wounds, all my  healing lay in the giving…of a kiss.

The wound is where the light gets in.




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