Good Friday
When I was a senior in college, my three best friends and I went to Bermuda for Spring Break. Instead of staying in a hotel, we stayed in a guest house, which we thought would be way cooler. It was. The people we stayed with, George and Ida Storms, even told the people at their private beachfront country club we were allowed to go in as their guests. It was a nice change from the crowded bars and wilder-than-we-were college kids. (side note: The hunky bartender called us "Charlie's Angels." How could we not love it there?). The three of us who are Catholic promised our parents we would at least step into a church on Good Friday. So, as soon as we woke up, instead of heading straight for the beach, we got on our mopeds and searched for a Catholic church. We couldn't find one, so we thought Episcopal would do. I mean, we didn't promise we'd step into a Catholic church. Just a church. After that, we went back to the guest house and, on the kitchen counter, found a loaf of freshly baked banana bread with a note that said "Happy Good Friday." We kind of looked at each other, confused. Happy Good Friday? We also learned that Good Friday is the day of the annual kite flying contest and the whole day is a big celebration. I guess when you live in a tropical paradise with pink sand beaches and pastel-colored buildings your perspective on things is a little different.
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