THE Good Fridays of my life are chapters of change due to circumstances of place and time. Today I will revert to the past and remain at home, reviewing their meaning to me in the various stages of what for my age is considered a long life.

The first Good Fridays I remember are when I was growing up in Baguio, then a city of 30,000, just after World War II. While on Holy Thursday, we went to the cathedral for the ceremony of the washing of the feet and the rituals of the day, Good Friday meant staying home quietly where we were expected to be reading spiritual texts or praying. There was no listening to the radio (there was no television yet) and it was allowable only if one listened to the Siete Palabras sermons, usually from Manila (that is why they were the ones broadcast), and be properly catechized about what they meant. There were visitors to Baguio for Holy Week, mostly families who came regularly at that time of year. We kept to ourselves as socializing, visiting outside the home was considered not correct Good Friday behavior.