Free Wounds by Alton Gansky

Not work really. Work implied drudgery. Translating the events that Christians revered as Good Friday brought him satisfaction. Nothing better than losing one’s self in the Koine Greek of the New Testament.
    Good Friday. Such an odd name for a day set aside to remember the suffering, torture, and murder of Jesus. Scholars debated how the term came to be. Some thought it was a variation of “God’s Friday” and the title had changed over the centuries. Perhaps. Ellis thought different. Good , in this context, meant holy, special, unique .
    Good Friday had been celebrated from the fourth century on, probably much longer. The fourth-century Archbishop Ambrose described it as “a day of bitterness on which we fast.” Many contemporary Christian holidays got their start a few centuries after the events they celebrated. Some came about as a response to pagan holidays. Easter, although clearly a Christian celebration, still carried the name of the goddess Estare and used pagan symbols such as eggs and rabbits. Not so, Good Friday. It was purely Christian and one of the most poignant times in a believer’s life.
    Ellis set his coffee cup down and listened to the gentle slapping of water against the fiberglass hull. He had his weekend planned. Most of it involved reading. The seminary was closed in observance of the religious holiday but would open for a few hours for the community Good Friday service. He would take his little skiff to the marina pier, retrieve his car from the parking lot, find a decent restaurant—maybe The Coronado Brewery—then make the drive to Escondido. The last part would take at least half an hour, probably more, depending on traffic. It was Friday. Traffic was guaranteed to be thick and sluggish.
    He returned his attention to the Gospel parallels in front of him. It was an older book. There were newer versions of such books. The Gospel parallels laid three of the four Gospels into columns, allowing an easy comparison. John, the fourth Gospel, was included in a column of its own. Since it took a different approach to the telling of Jesus’ life and repeated little of what the others had, it had to stand alone. Next to the book was the Greek text he was using for translation.
    Determined to make better headway than he had since rising this morning, he focused on the texts, but once again his mind wandered. He had made the same translation every year for the last two decades. It should be easy, but attention undulated like the water around his boat. He had endured two shocks yesterday: news that one of his students had been murdered, and the appearance of Carmen Rainmondi in his office. She didn’t recognize him.
    For that he was thankful.
    Of course there was no reason for her to know him. He had never been to her home. Shelly Rainmondi knew his name, but he couldn’t conceive of any reason why she would talk about him to his sister. His fascination with her had been one chained by distance and silence. He wanted to ask her out. Every high school boy wanted to date her. Truth was, he wouldn’t have recognized Carmen. He had seen her at school, of course, but they shared no classes. He couldn’t recall ever exchanging a word with her. Carmen was a year ahead of Ellis. Theirs were different worlds.
    He did, however, recognize the name. Rainmondi was not a common name, and after . . .
    He had to force away the image of an overturned car . . . the echoes of her pleas for help . . . the violence . . . the pain of the punch he endured . . .
    And. His. Cowardice.
    Ellis slammed his eyes shut. He wanted to purge himself of the sight, rid himself of nightmares. Forgive himself and know God had forgiven him. His theology told him he was forgiven. He could cite chapter and verse, one after the other, but the feeling of forgiveness never came. For a man of his beliefs, the absence of peace was troubling.
    If self-forgiveness were a requirement before God could