Cyan on Good Friday

I am sure that clergy the world over could collectively write a book that contains equal parts of great joy, and great sadness.

Today of all days!

Good Friday, has to be the day the printer runs out of ink.  In every congregation I have served there have been gremlins at work in the photocopier or printer the very day of some large church celebration.  Call it Murphy’s Law, call it the devil, call it God’s will.  Whatever you want to call it – it seems to happen on the stress filled days of a lone clergy person with no office staff.

So here I sit, fingers dripping with Cyan.

The people that designed ink jet printers, are I believe, a special breed, that will stand alongside the same people who designed the cheap coffee machines that take coffee ‘pods’.  The machines are inexpensive – the pods, or ink, are worth small bricks of gold!

Cyan smudges my fingers. How much is this one thing worth?

So while the rest of humanity seems to be in hiding on Good Friday, as the newspapers have warned against celebrating parties or playing loud music on a day of prayer and fasting; I sit pondering how a small machine has become the sole focus of my day.  Small red lights glow from full tanks of ink, and Cyan winks back teasingly. Knowingly.  Who knew that you need Cyan, a bright blue, in order to print in a Black and White setting?!

A hammer sits by the door so that at least the gathered community will hear the sound of nails being hammered in later today at the Good Friday worship service.

Cyan marks the handle now.

An early childhood memory comes to mind – my father bent over the rear of an old white Volkswagen Beatle with engine exposed to the tinkering of a ball-peen hammer.  Would it work now on my plastic printer?

The seasonal struggles with technology mishaps, I know, are small compared to other sufferings.  A collective shout from the audience – ‘FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS!’.  In my upset mood I hear my own parenting questions echoing back from my children: “Has anybody died? Is there blood? Well then, don’t worry about it.”

I’d like to reply sarcastically, Yes, someone did die.  There is no blood, but my fingers are stained with Cyan! I’ll try not to worry about it, but that is not to say that it hasn’t greatly changed me.

Today of all days, my hands are smeared with…

Cyan.

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