Surprised at the Cross

I had quite an unexpected reaction yesterday at the Good Friday service. Most of my attention was focused on getting the music right (with some anxiety, due to my prep time for this service having been usurped by my having taken on - last minute - the Holy Thursday Mass; also discovering that the other singers had not received my e-mail with the music), and paying close attention to the order and choreography of the service, since I had not attended a Good Friday service in twelve years. The music ministers went up first to venerate the cross, and what surprised me were the tears that began welling up, from the deepest part of me (what? it's a wooden thing, it's a ritual, it's a symbol, I'm surrounded by hundreds of people: I absolutely never cry in public!). I watched the ones who went before me (carefully, because I couldn't remember the exact ritual) bend in and kiss the cross as the Deacon tenderly cleaned it after each kiss with a cloth. I was last in the line of musicians, and what I really wanted to do was not simply kiss the cross, but to throw myself at its feet in a heap, wrap my arms around it, and bawl like a baby. I didn't, of course. Not actually. But that's where I am today, truly - in a heap, at the foot of the cross, holding on for dear life, overflowing with tears of sorrow and gratitude.