Good Friday has always felt like a strange way to describe the bleakest day in human history to me. I remember the first time that the weight of this event parked itself on my heart: sitting on an old, white couch in our dank basement, an elementary-aged version of me had just been shown the movie The Passion of the Christ. Although I did not comprehend how Jesus’ death was intended as an atoning substitute for my own or what I was supposed to do with this information, I cannot help but again feel the tears that welled up in that little boy's eyes. On a slow April evening in the early 2000s, the reality of this catastrophic calamity stirred up profound compassion in my heart.