Such tales are shared by CACO members like war stories passed on to new troops in a combat zone. We listen somberly and secretly hope that we'll be spared the unenviable responsiblity. After a month of dread, my turn on the two-day watch finally began today. The assignment requires nothing more than to wait for bad news that may never come.

I look for signs. I watch CNN to monitor the situation, wondering if an uprising in Sadr City or Fallujah will lead to the death of another one of my brothers. I sit by the phone hoping that when it rings its just another telemarketer rather than from headquarters. I pray that I’ll be able to make it through the day without seeing the tears of a mother or the pained expression of a father trying to appear strong.

Then I remember it’s Good Friday and I begin to wonder who told Jesus’ family and friends that he had been killed. Since many of his disciples had fled the night before, they were likely still in hiding until it was too late. Who told them they had lost their teacher? Or what about James, who was probably just returning home from work when he heard the news. Did he see the tortured expression on Mary’s face and realize he had lost his brother? And how long until the report reached Jericho, where a reformed tax collecter named Zacchae'us would grieve over the loss of the man who had changed his life?

Over 2000 years ago, the greatest “casualty call" in history spread throughout a small Roman province in the Middle East. The news that the truest friend, the most beloved son, the gentlest teacher anyone had ever known had been crucified must have spread like wildfire through the land, sparking the most profound grief our universe has ever known. From this side of the calendar we can’t begin to comprehend the magnitude of loss that must have weighed on the hearts of Christ’s followers, family, and friends. We look backward on Good Friday, seeing it from the perspective of the glory that came on Sunday morning. But they saw only the darkness and pain, the loss of hope and bewilderment; they saw nothing but heartbreak.

My phone may ring later this evening. I may have to don my uniform and put on a stoic front. I may have to drive for hours only to take the longer journey up someone’s front steps. I may have to knock on the door and see the melting expression of a parent’s dawning realization of why I’m standing on their porch. I may have to face the grief and pain and sorrow of a family that has lost someone they loved.

But I can offer them hope and take comfort in knowing that the heartbreak won’t last. After all, I know how the story ends. It may only be Friday. But I know that Sunday’s coming soon.