For the first time in more years than I can remember, I am not involved in worship for Good Friday. It's strange but surprisingly liberating to sit quietly at home, read scripture and reflect on the Cross.

Sophie, the tabby cat whose name means"wisdom" is asleep on my knee. For a time, she was lying so that the markings on her back were directly in my line of sight.

can you see the cross on her back, almost donkey-like amidst the stripes?

Whoever wants to follow me must deny themselves and take up their cross daily.

It made me wonder, as I ponder Jesus' death on the cross, what that means for me.

I may not have a cross etched permanently on my back, no visible sign to remind me, but perhaps when I spend time with Sophie, and enjoy her beautiful markings, I will remember the horror and the beauty of Calvary and find myself drawn again to follow in the footsteps of my LORD.

When I was growing up, we had a family tradition for Good Friday. My Dad would get up and cycle to the bakery in the village and come back with a dozen hot cross buns, still warm from the oven. In his last few years the bicycle gave way to a mobility scooter but still the same warm , tasty buns.

The last time he can have done this was in 1989, because Good Friday 1990 he was in hospital, just days from the end of his life. This year, Easter lands just one day different from 1990, so there is a special poignancy about keeping the tradition alive.

On the Wednesday after Easter, around midday, my Dad died..so that, rather than the date, is when I tend to remember. This year, his anniversary of death lands on Tuesday, so a kind of double remembering.

I know quite a few people for whom Easter brings memories of those they have loved and"lost" so my thoughts and prayers are with them today.