I may not have ever cried as much—publicly—as I did Friday Morning. Our church held a 7am Good Friday service on a quiet farm in Ashland, VA. It’s a tradition for this little church, and it’s a gorgeous setting, but it was my first time going. In fact, it might have been my first Good Friday service, ever.
The Light Without the Shadow
Growing up, Good Friday wasn’t something we really did. At least not that I remember. What I do remember is:
- Flannel Board Sunday School lessons about the empty tomb
- Easter Dresses and Knee Socks
- A corsage for mama
- Those peanut butter eggs—every church has an egg lady, doesn’t it? The one who only makes them at Easter.
- And the hymns. My favorites: He Lives, Christ the Lord is Risen Today, and Christ Arose
Down on the Farm
Every time I made reference to the “Good Friday Service out on the farm”, I felt like I should have hay in my mouth or that, at minimum, I should have some sort of farm-life ‘street cred’ to back it up. Neither, however, were true.
In fact, I giggled to myself as I took my EV ‘off-roading’ down that gravel lane to the gathering spot.
People had gathered in an open field with rustic benches made from tree stumps. There was an in-ground fire pit, a pile of fire wood, and a wooden cross planted firmly in the ground. I found a spot near the fire pit next to a little boy who was licking the icing off of his doughnut.
Pastor preached on the Day of Atonement—the tradition of the scapegoat, how the sins of the people were transferred to it by touch, and how it was then sent into the wilderness.
More about Scapegoats:
The High Priest confessed the intentional sins of the Israelites to God and placed them figuratively on the head of the scapegoat, who would symbolically “take them away”. The Scapegoat would then be sent away into the wilderness and pushed down a steep ravine where it died.
Then he spoke of Jesus. Pastor talked about the different ways in which Jesus’ ministry incorporated touch:
- The blind man
- The leper
- The woman who touched the hem of his garment.
Pastor wondered aloud if those who touched Jesus that last week (the original Holy week) knew they were transferring their sins to him like the scapegoat?
- Judas when he betrayed Jesus with a kiss
- John, his beloved disciple, when he leaned against Jesus chest during the last supper
- Mary of Bethany when she knelt and washed his feet.
Did they know?
Surely Not I
By now, I was already in tears—transported in time, soaking in the imagery of that week ~2000 years ago. When I looked up, back in my present time, my eyes locked on 3 hammers and a box of nails lying on a bench. That is when it hit me: I was going to have to nail my own nail into that cross.
My thoughts raced. Empathy fought with guilt. Guilt tried to bargain with self-righteousness for a reduced sentence. Surely not I, I thought. I can’t do this. This is too painful, and I am too… “Squooshy.”
My silent crying turned into something messier as we formed a line—each of us holding a nail, waiting our turn. The hammers were passed from person to person. As I waited, I could hear the strikes: nails being driven in.
I wiped snot on my sweater—I was not prepared for snot.
When I realized I couldn’t overcome my tears, I surrendered to them. I stood at the foot of the cross—crying, snotting, nailing. And in that vulnerable place, my community saw me. Some stopped beside me. Shared space with me while I cried.
I was a squooshy puddle of goo—held together by a love I still can’t explain, and a community that didn’t look away.
When I came back to my seat and caught a glimpse of the mascara streaks running down my cheeks, I laughed again.
I thought back to that morning, pulling up in my sweet, off-roading-farm-ready EV, when someone (Rebecca) greeted me with a smile and pointed to my brand-new personalized license plate—the one that shares a name with this blog.
“We were wondering who Squooshy was,” she said.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she had any trouble figuring it out now. Because after all the crying and snotting—I think it was pretty obvious who held the title of “Squooshiest”.
What a beautiful and meaningful Service.
Worship, Risk, Repeat
But wait. There’s more.
After the farm service, I headed into the office for my day job as #RiskManagerRhonda. And that evening, our worship team was back at it, joining another church for their Good Friday service.
That church had actually joined us at the 7 a.m. gathering out on the farm. Now we were returning the blessing—sharing in community.
There was something surprisingly freeing about being part of another church’s worship service. The ‘home team’ carried the weight—the mic checks, the prompters, the “what’s the next song?” stress. We got to just walk in, fold into the rhythm, and be ministered to while ministering.
I’d chosen a front-row seat to make it easy to step up to the stage when needed—and when my husband and older son arrived, they joined me in the front.
That meant I got to spend the evening singing worship songs to them—stealing little smiles and making googly eyes at my sweeties, all while lifting up songs about a love that’s changed my life. It was a beautiful and heartfelt service.
Good Friday, Bad dinner
We had planned to go out to dinner after church that evening—just the four of us. David, our older son, was home visiting, and it had been a while since we’d been together as a full foursome.
But dinner didn’t pan out.
And by “didn’t pan out,” I mean it was gloriously and fabulously undone by all the greatest hits from the Morales family dysfunction archives.
One miscommunication led to a misunderstanding. That misunderstanding led to embarrassment. And that embarrassment? It was forged in the flames of not wanting to be vulnerable. All of that, of course, plucked at my middle child’s “does anyone even see me?” nerve like a fiddler at the Grand Ole Opry.
There we were: stuck in gridlock, captives to our own demons, with no map to guide us out. Triggered and spiraling. The restaurant was abandoned. Dinner was not ordered. We all went home. Hungry.
The good news? Apparently, I still had more tears left after that morning’s service. The bad news? The headline of the night was no longer about a beautiful Good Friday evening service—it was about our brokenness.
It was about MY brokennes.
We tried to rally, at least for a bit. A few good repair conversations gave us hope. We even made a new plan: a family board game.
Except… the game selected was Trivial Pursuit.
And with the OG Morales clan—and yours truly—trying to play that in a tender emotional state? That was like playing Operation with a sleep-deprived monkey on a sugar high.
I own the button, but Morales clan was playing Dixie on that thing. IJS.
The trigger archives cracked back open. As did a bottle of wine.
The Silence of Saturday
Saturday was hard. The day was wide open—free to make of it what we would. Yard work. Chores. Rest. But I sat in my brokenness all day and couldn’t find my way back out. I felt like a fraud.
For all the times I’ve borne witness to the work God has done in me and in my family over the past two years—transforming, healing, making things new—this felt like none of that had stuck.
These were the same things that had triggered me years ago. These were the same reactions, the same anger, the same helplessness, the same resentment. And here I was, walking around with a testimony of joy and belovedness?
Then, suddenly, I heard this awful voice whisper: “Well, you don’t seem all that beloved to me.”
Saturday hurt. And I couldn’t make it stop hurting. I bibled. I prayed. And everything just felt… quiet. I stewed. I felt lost. And, as dramatic as it sounds, after the fullness of Good Friday, I just couldn’t find him. He seemed so…silent.
I thought about the disciples on that Saturday—how alone they must have felt. Defeated. Abandoned. How deeply their loss must have gone—not only for their beloved friend but for the hope he represented.
The fear that maybe he wasn’t who they thought he was.
That they were wrong.
That they’d bet on the wrong Rabbi.
Joy cometh in the Morning
When I woke up this morning, I was not looking forward to going to church. I was carrying too much— brokenness, exhaustion, and a new voice of shame. It all felt so heavy.
I even sniped at my husband before we got out of bed. Begrudgingly, I shuffled to the shower to wash this jar of clay and try to make it ready to receive the treasures of Easter Sunday.
And there, in the quiet stream of water, I heard something stir in my heart. It was not silence. It was still. It was small. But it was something. And it was enough. Enough to send me back—to my husband.
We prayed together, asking God to heal the wounds from the sniping and to soften our hearts. And I rallied for church.
The unLimited capacity of my ego
We have been studying Second Corinthians (or Two Corinthians, if you prefer, Mr. President) for quite a while at our church in a series called unLimited. Each week, we’ve been looking at how our natural limitations contrast with the unlimited nature of God.
This week’s topic was weakness—and how it reveals God’s strength. I was ready to phone this one in. I mean, I’ve read Brené Brown’s The Power of Vulnerability—
…OK, I’ve skimmed it.
Fine. I watched the TED Talk.
But still—vulnerability isn’t a new concept for me. One might even say it’s an overused muscle. So some part of me thought this sermon was for my community, not for me (perhaps we should’ve spent a week on the unlimited capacity of my ego).
Yeah. No. This one was definitely for me.
As Pastor spoke about how we aren’t meant to journey alone, and how we’re not meant to hide our weakness from each other, I could only think of the shame I’d carried with me—about our family dysfunction. About my dysfunction.
I thought about sitting in my aloneness on Saturday believing I could not face the world because I was a fraud. And I realized these words were just for me.
Somehow, they were just for me.
I’ve just seen Jesus
Saturday was a long day of silence. But just because there is silence, does not mean Heaven is not hard at work.
Saturday is long. It is deafening in its silence. Despair will look like a good option. But don’t give up. Sunday always comes.
Sunday comes.
Sunday comes.
Thank you God that Sunday comes.
It is beautiful how God reaches out to us—it is just so beautiful.
Best. Easter. Ever…
And Best Easter Song Ever:
Share your favorite Easter stories in the comments. I would love to hear from you.
The Squooshy 
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