Good Friday.

If I ever needed Good Friday, it was today. There was nothing particularly wrong with today - other than this lingering chest stuffiness (which is trying its hardest to turn into bronchitis), two kids beyond tired of winter, a pile of work that was not very motivating, a house that would probably cause the child protective service people to gasp in horror and a pending drive to Happy Valley. (It doesn't matter that I lived for 18 months in Happy Valley or that it technically has fewer inhabitants than The Frontier. It still has worse traffic, more construction, more sprawl and results in more under-my-breath grumblings in the car while Woodstock says, "What mama? I can't hear you."

Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).

It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.

I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.

This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.

It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.

Good Friday indeed.