Weary from a night of vigilance over a dog struggling to breathe, ashamed at my sharp words of last evening to a child, disturbed by a strange episode of a TV show, I leave the house under gray skies to walk the Stations of the Cross.
Here in this place where we took family pictures at a more innocent time, photographs which still scroll across our computer screen, along this same path that day long ago, I did not notice we were walking the Via Dolorosa.
So many of Your actions are depicted here, You stumbling in pain, but always getting back up, even though You knew death was the goal, and I am Simon of Cyrene or the woman who wipes Your face, though it is all I can do these days to carry my own cross.
They lay You in the grave. I must return to difficult responsibility. A distant siren mixes with birdsong. I leave the monastery, longing for the Resurrection.