When I was a little girl, my mom made my five brothers and me go to our room every Good Friday between 1:00 pm and 3:00 pm. We weren’t allowed to go outside and play, watch television, or have fun. Mom wanted us to remember Jesus, His journey down Calvary, and His crucifixion.
I’d lie on my bed and envision Him walking barefoot while carrying the cross, stumbling on sharp, jagged rocks as people threw stones at him and spat in his face. I’d picture the crown of thorns on his head and taste His pain from the blood dripping into his parched mouth.
And almost every year on this day our Michigan skies would cloud-over, making our home dark and forlorn—just like my thoughts.
But one year on this day the sun showed its bright warm smile, making our home appear cheerful. I’ll never forget how wrong it felt. I thought no one should smile during this time—not even the sun. Blue skies had no place on such a dismal day. Christ’s pain and sunshine didn’t go together.
It only seemed right for the sun to shine Easter Sunday. And if it didn’t I was disappointed.
Does your scene mirror your protagonist’s mood? If it doesn’t it could feel wrong to your readers, too.
What family memories do you have of your Easter weekend?