Three o’ clock is marked by a sharp wooden clack in place of the processional bell, and the clergy enters in somber silence through a parted sea of black veils and mourning wear.
We’re having our own tiny passion in the pew as my son arches, flails, whinies, and whimpers. Finally quelled by milk, he lays peaceful and heavy in my burning arms. We make a sweaty pietà.
When I kiss the Holy Cross, I silently offer my child to his Father to do with what He wills. It is a prayer I make perhaps too freely. Too unconcerned that He might will pillars, crowns, and crosses as was willed for her Son on this holy, haloed day.