A Good Friday to Remember

I’m glad I’m old enough to remember when Good Friday was an important day in our culture.  It was a day when schools either had the whole day off or closed at noon.  Most businesses closed at noon too.  Families joined together and attended afternoon church services where we heard homilies about the passion and crucifixion of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

In our current day, Christians still come together to remember the momentous events that took place nearly 2,000 years ago, events that fulfilled ancient prophecies and set the scene for the glorious Easter morning still to come.  Businesses no longer close, and many schools are loathe to mention the holiday for fear of speaking favorably about Christianity.  It’s a sad statement about the trend of today’s pop culture, when the gift of eternal life is disparaged in favor of nothing more than spring break.

This Friday evening, when I attend church and remember the sacrifice made on my behalf and yours for all eternity, I will also remember a more temporal matter of importance in my life.  It began on February 19, 1984 when I was dogsitting for a beautiful and very pregnant Golden Retriever named Chelsea.  Her owners had preplanned a ski trip, not knowing at the time that their family pet would be due to have puppies that same weekend.  But that’s the way it turned out.

Chelsea was so close to birthing her babies that she could barely make it around the block on a slow walk when we began the weekend together.  When we went to sleep at night, I’d awaken if she even breathed heavily, fearing that she might decide to curl up on the carpet in a corner of the living room to have her pups.  I was on edge, but happily so, when Chelsea climbed up on the sofa in the family room on Sunday afternoon and decided that her time was upon us.  It took the lure of fresh cooked liver treats to get her to move down one flight of stairs to her whelping box.  Soon after that short trip, the births began.  First one, then another and another until all eight babies were born.  There were four boys and four girls…and one of those little baby girls was to be named Aspen.  Chelsea’s Golden Aspen to be exact.

A week later, the puppies had more than doubled in size.  By six weeks, my little Aspen was already showing signs of the sleek beauty she was to become.  Finally, by nine weeks, she was weaned and ready to come home with me.  As I will tell you another time, I don’t believe in coincidences, and I think it was no coincidence that Aspen came to live with me and brighten my life on Good Friday of 1984.  This beautiful puppy grew into the sweetest dog anyone could imagine, and she and I spent more than 14 years together.

Aspen and her brothers and sisters at less than a week old.

Aspen at nine weeks with her "cousin", Jonathan Laidacker, who is now a a 28-year-old mural artist of note in Philadelphia.



Aspen was always a natural in front of the camera.  Here, she smiles for one of her very early portraits.  She made me thankful to God each and every day we were together for the warmth, companionship and beauty she brought into my life.