Good Friday was a very somber event in our house. Or maybe I should say Saturday was very somber. Saturday morning always meant cleaning. My dad would be at the church practicing his sermon, my sisters and I would be cleaning the house. Yes, I had chores I couldn’t run away from. I was responsible for cleaning my parent’s bathroom and vacuuming the stairs. It was the worst. I just remember that black radio with the double cassette tape deck and we would have on our homemade boxer shorts and white t-shirts. And I remember hating every Saturday morning. I wished I could just watch cartoons and eat sugary cereal like normal 8-year-olds. If I had a neighborhood sleepover, my mom would call around 8 in the morning for me to come home to clean. Just when I thought I had escaped Saturday morning cleaning. Buzz kill. One time I even slammed the telephone down and was afraid of her retaliatory response to that when I sulked home. But on this Saturday, we would stop, sit down at our worn kitchen table and read the Easter story. Not the whole Easter story though. We would never read about the resurrection until Sunday morning. My mother controlled the emotional temperature in the house. She felt Good Friday should be respected in a hushed manner and so we obeyed. I just quietly moved through the house and acted like I understood the sacrifice that Jesus chose to make. Either that or face her consequences and I wasn’t a fool. But Saturday mornings were the worst and the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter was memorable for being miserable. It was weird this oppressive and obligatory depression. Yet, come Easter, poof, we could smile and be happy again. 

Looking back, ironically I enjoyed reading scripture together. Maybe because we were together, calm and there was a sense of unity in our family which was not always the case. Even as an adult, I will read the Easter story. And you guessed it, I won’t read the resurrection part. Not yet. But I do spend time reflecting on the character of Jesus. Of His grace, His love, the choice He gives us to follow Him. One issue I have been processing more is the emotions of Jesus. His unabashed emotions in response to situations. After his triumphant entry into Jerusalem by donkey, he goes to the temple. He sees the money changers and the buying and selling occurring. He is angry and overturns the tables. Often Christians will call it righteous anger. Why do we call it righteous anger? Because we believe Jesus to be Holy? Because His heart is pure? His anger is justified? Jesus sees a misuse of the temple and is upset and responds in dramatic action. He drives out the people abusing the temple to profit for selfish gains (not surprising, it is a follow-the-money concept in society). Jesus does not apologize for disrupting something in his anger. This emotion I was taught to tamp down, ignore and not address is okay. If Jesus can be angry, why can’t I? I have permission to be angry. I am angry but I am not an angry person. I didn’t ask for cancer nor did I deserve cancer but my reality is here we are. I am through all my cancer treatments. I am in remission. Woo hoo! Official words from my oncologist. Yet, I feel underwhelmed by that statement. No bells were rung. No balloons or confetti. No line of hospital workers clapping. Another buzz kill. Now what? Now, we deal with all the ripple effects of cancer. Restoring my body. The concerning anxiety of my youngest kiddo. The mental health challenges of my older two. Getting my port removed. Apparently, on my last CT scan there was some fluid around my heart. In caution, I have a heart scan to better understand what that is. Probably nothing. Oh, and we can re-apply for financial aid. Apparently, there is a sliding scale of financial aid. Why wasn’t I told this the first time we applied? How was I supposed to know this information? I don’t know what I don’t know. So here we go again. I am not overly optimistic. But life just doesn’t take a right turn and resume life as before. Instead, I feel overwhelmed again by the “survivorship” program. (Side note: survivorship is defined as anyone diagnosed with cancer. Not that you lived after treatments. If you die because of cancer you are still considered a survivor. I’m scratching my head in confusion as well.) A survivorship coordinator gave me pages and pages of numbers and groups and meetings for post-treatment help. It’s like I need a personal secretary just to help me go through this rolodex of paperwork, make the necessary phone calls and follow-ups. I left my remission meeting with more of a feeling of dejection about all the information I did not know and the uncertainty of the best way forward. 

This Good Friday was a day of grief, of unburdening my anger and a move toward release. I cried. A lot. We are emotional beings. And this is where many people get lost. Our goal is to not ignore our emotions but rather feel your emotions and (ready for it?) know what to do with these emotions in a healthy manner. So I have hope. Hope that in this acknowledgment of my anger and grief, change can move in me.