Into the Mysterious Dark

I vividly remember the Good Friday when I first experienced the haunting reality of that day. I was 12, and per my mom's annual tradition, she stayed home from work and we kids stayed home from school. Being old enough to understand what the Passion was, but not yet old enough to have seen the film that bore its name, I remember wandering through that day in a foggy, grey area of subconscious sorrow and intellectual consternation, having no idea why that day felt so heavy. I was always told it was of grave importance, but I'd never felt it like this before. I knew that Christ had died (it wasn't until years later that I knew He'd died for me , as though He'd come only for me), but the earth's soil lapping up His blood, the ground splitting open in rage, and the skies weeping down their protest hadn't yet touched the dark, ignorant caverns of my soul's eye. My heart was still encased in deep, impenetrable ice, and I didn't know it yet. There w