Memories of a childhood Good Friday and Holy Saturday. A fond memory of a friend, church and home and a celebration of Hot Cross Buns! Early lessons which have stayed with me.
The sun was shining on a cold Good Friday in the 1960s. I stood by the post box on Serlby Rise chatting to my friend Coleen.
We were both on our way home from different churches. Coleen had been to St Edward’s (Roman Catholic) and I’d been to St Bartholomew’s (Anglican). I’d walked past our house, to spend more time with Coleen.
At church, I’d joined in a little group of children, walking the stations of the cross, kneeling in front of each picture and giggling when we heard that Jesus was stripped. We had done this every week during Lent, but on Good Friday it was different. The church itself had been stripped of anything beautiful and what couldn’t be moved was covered in black cloth.
I was left in no doubt that Jesus was dead, and this was a sad day. I was glad to get out into the sunshine.
Probably, Coleen had had the same experience and we talked about it. We asked the question why that day is called good when what happened to Jesus was so awful.
Eventually, we said goodbye and went our separate ways. I went home to the longest hours of my life. At home, the house was in turmoil. Mam was cleaning everything to within an inch of its life, all the windows were open, and it was cold and tense.
I recognise this tension in the house when I’m cleaning, and I apologise to anyone affected!
The fish that we ate was lethal with bones.
How come we can buy and eat fish that isn’t full of bones nowadays?
Jesus was dead and buried. The afternoon and next day stretched before me in empty desolation.
There were compensations though, mainly in the form of Hot Cross Buns, which were and still are, one of my favourite foods. Mam was a forgiving mother, but she was very strict when it came to hot cross buns. To eat one before Good Friday was unforgiveable! Thankfully she always provided plenty so we could eat leftovers right up to Easter Monday!
I still have that sense of emptiness through Good Friday and Holy Saturday. For me, the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday is Holy Saturday, not Easter Eve, because it’s a day in its own right. Having said that, I’ve appreciated being part of churches which celebrate Jesus’ resurrection on Saturday evening!
This year, in 2026, I will wait until 6am to walk up a local hill for our sunrise Easter service.
I’ll publish something to describe the difference a day makes!
In the meantime, have a blessed Holy Saturday.
Wander Well towards Easter (almost there!)
Mandy.
What memories of Good Friday and Holy Saturday do you have?
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February is such an evocative month for me. It begins with remembering a birth and ends with remembering death. It is all part of life and love.Here is part of the story of my parents’ deaths. I’ve written it in love and hope.The photos were all taken in the last week of February, in Sherwood Forest, which is a place they both taught me to love.
What did you say?
Wednesday 28th February 1990 lives on as a grey blustery day in my memory. I was walking up Haydn Road in Nottingham, alongside my friend. We’d both left two children in school and were wheeling our toddlers along in pushchairs. We chatted about the day ahead. I was looking forward to having my hair cut and helping at the Toy Library before the end of school. I was thinking about my dad who was going to hospital that day and my husband who was calling in to help him get up and ready for the ambulance.
Life can change in an instant.
A car pulled up alongside us and my husband jumped out. I was confused, the car was my brother in law’s, and he stayed behind the driving wheel.
There was no easy way to say it.
“Mandy, your dad’s died”.
I am sorry to say I was cross.
“What did you say?”
To my left, my friend gasped “Oh Mandy”,and her hand was over her face.
This was not unexpected, but it was the shock of my life. Lung cancer had done its work as predicted and taken a year from diagnosis to the end.
As I’ve said before, I am blessed with good family and friends. We all bundled into the car, pushchairs, friend, toddlers and all and my brother-in-law drove us home.
My friend took in my two-year-old daughter and promised to look after her and fetch her brothers from school.
Cancelling.
At home, I made phone calls to cancel the hairdresser’s appointment and apologise to the Toy Library coordinator. I found my address book in case I needed to make more calls from mam’s phone, then we left my day and all my carefully made plans and I was driven into a strange, sad and scary new world.
There were no mobile phones.
See this link for more about the part my hairdresser played.
Twenty-three years later, on Wednesday 27th February 2013, I spent a freezing cold day in Coventry Cathedral. We sat with our overcoats on, listening to distinguished speakers talking about conflict and how it could be a positive, creative thing if we’re not afraid of it and how it can be destructive when it’s ignored. It’s not a lesson I’ve learnt very well.
I enjoyed the day, I met some old friends from theological college and in the evening, we ate a delicious meal before we listened to the after-dinner speakers.
This was a two-day conference, and I stayed overnight in a travel lodge. I had been obedient to the rules and kept my phone switched off all day and evening. When I walked away from the cathedral into the strange city, I switched my phone on and got another shock which sent me reeling.
It lit up with messages to call my husband, but my brother had left a voicemail with the news:
“Mandy, I’m so sorry, mam’s died.”
Guilt.
I was full of shock and guilt that I hadn’t been there and was the last to know. I spent the night awake, alone in a strange place and fought the urge to just walk out into the dark, I was so desperate to get home.
She had fooled us all. There had been many times when we were told she didn’t have long to live. There were mornings when I’d woken up convinced I’d slept through a phone call from the hospital calling me in to her bedside. Indeed, eighteen months previously she’d been admitted to a nursing home with only three months to live!
A couple of evenings before I went away, I’d sat with her and together we filled in a questionnaire about what sort of music she liked, what work she’d done and where she’d been on holiday. I think the nursing home staff thought she was there to stay!
In the end, I believe she did what she wanted, and passed away quietly in her sleep, with none of us there.
Full of apologies.
In Coventry, after a sleepless night, I dutifully went back to the cathedral and began apologising. I said sorry that I’d got to leave. I’d promised to show another woman the way to the train station, and I said sorry to her. Mam’s vicar was there, who was a good friend to her, and when I told him, I said sorry.
Happily, I was surrounded there by friends, for which I am grateful.
I walked to the train station, bought a new ticket and arrived home to a strange, sad and scary world.
Once more into the wilderness.
There is nothing like grief to banish you into a state of wilderness. With the loss of each parent, I felt exiled into a strange land, where I didn’t know my way around and didn’t know who I was. I was surprised at how physical it all was, with actual pain and infections, as if my body was grieving, one bit at a time. This is all part of loving someone and so I am grateful for it.
Thankfulness.
Thankfully, there were lots of glimmers of goodness along the way. I keep saying it, and I will say it again, I am blessed by my family and friends, and I thank them all for their kindness.
February.
February is such an evocative month for me, full of different aspects of love. It begins with memories of a birth and ends with memories of death, and maybe this is fitting for a month where darkness and light, winter and spring mingle.
See these links to read the happy stories of birth:
Whatever you are wandering through right now, wander well.
Mandy.
Things I love:
My parents, family and friends.
This quote from Saint Paul, which I believe: I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things to come, nor powers, nor heights, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Taken from Paul’s letter to the Romans, chapter 8.
The queue moved slowly that day in the narrow aisle between shelves of Basildon Bond writing pads and envelopes, boxes of rubber bands, pens, pencils and rubbers. It was the 1970s and writing letters was an important way of keeping in touch. It may be hard to believe now, but in the long holidays, I wrote and received letters from my school friends. That’s how we told each other our news and arranged to meet.
However, that day, I wasn’t buying paper, envelopes or stamps. That day I had to wait until I got to the post office counter and ask Mr Brown for what I wanted. My mam had told me what I needed and I’d practised the request.
“Can I have an air mail letter form for Canada please?”
I was in awe of how quickly and easily Mr Brown found what I wanted and sold it to me. It seemed an outlandish desire, and I expected to be told I was ridiculous, and to ask for something sensible.
Do they still make and sell Air Mail Letter forms?
I handed over my money and received the form. It was a single sheet of very thin blue paper, which folded into itself. The top third had gummed flaps, ready to be damped, folded over and stuck to the back of the middle third. The sheet was magical, it turned into a complete letter and envelope, with the words PAR AVION printed at the top and the correct amount for postage stamped on it.
I could hardly wait to get home and begin writing.
I was a girl guide in the 22nd Nottingham company and we met in Pierrepont school hall. February 22nd is Thinking Day, the day when guides and brownies all over the world think about each other. On that day, we travelled to a different meeting place and met girls from other parts of Nottingham.
Shiny pennies and colourful uniforms.
To prepare for this, we’d collected pennies, polished them and presented our shiny coins. I don’t know where the pennies went once we’d handed them in. I enjoyed seeing pictures of girls from other countries and was intrigued that uniforms were so different.
Photo by Su00f3c Nu0103ng u0110u1ed9ng on Pexels.com
One thought leads to a letter.
I took my thinking seriously and signed up to the girl guide penfriend scheme. I was matched with a girl from Canada, which is why I was in the post office queue.
I am sorry to say that I can’t even remember my penfriend’s name, but receiving her letters through the post was wonderful. I loved reading about her life, which was rural and in a different world to mine on Serlby Rise. Her girl guide meetings sounded a lot more exciting than ours and involved spending time in the woods.
A photograph required an envelope.
We did exchange photographs. I must have bought an airmail writing pad and envelopes for that. I would have taken my letter to the post office for Mr Brown to weigh and then sell me the correct value of stamps. When the stamps were on the envelope, he’d put it straight into the brown sack behind the counter. I didn’t have to take it out of the shop and pop it into the red pillar box outside. Pillar boxes had a sharp, metallic smell to them and I was fascinated by the little card which told us when the next collection was due. The postman (it was always a postman in the 1970s), had to change the card when they emptied the box.
I really am sorry that I can’t remember that girl’s name. I am very glad she wrote to me and I wonder how her life turned out. I also wonder if she remembers being a girl guide and that she once had a penfriend from Nottingham, England.
Wandering Through The Land Of Nod. 