Dunkin Donuts (both word spelled wrong in their mark) doesn’t jack up the prices on their goods just because they have you hostage behind the airport security perimeter. And they accept Apple Pay which is almost like not really paying for something. I ordered two medium cappuccinos and while I was waiting for my order the girls behind the counter were saying today was not a Good Friday but a bad Friday. I asked why it was a bad Friday and they said “all the little things that are going wrong today.” Nothing like a crucifixion or anything.
I feel asleep reading the Chesterton paperback on Saint Francis, something I found at my brother’s house in the books my father left behind, and he was equating Francis’s purposeful application of the Christian life to Giotto’s paintings. And this morning, before we left for the airport, I was looking at my Philip Guston book and his painting to his mentors caught my eye (again.)
I look for coincidences on Good Friday. I free associated my way through an interpretation of the Passion Play a long time ago. The Stations were my favorite thing about the years I spent in a Catholic Church.
As anyone who reads this knows, I was named “Paul” because I was born on the feast day of Saint Paul of the Cross, who dedicated his life to the teaching of lessons learned from Christ’s death on the cross. Peggi and I are starting a pilgrimage, we’re calling it a walk, on Good Friday. All coincidence. But I did bring the tiny relic, from either Saint Paul’s body or his cross, that Father Shannon, a family friend, brought back from Italy when I was young.
OK, when you’re done reading this post you can go forward by clicking the small link above the title above (Bad Friday)”