It’s late, and I should be asleep. But I am not, and my brain stubbornly refuses to shut down so that I can doze off.

So I climb out of bed with a sigh (for my own benefit, since no one is around to hear it). I walk into the living room, and through the slats of the venetian blinds, I see more light than is usual for one in the morning.

I open the door and am greeted by a scene painted mostly with darker colors — midnight blue, navy blue, black. When I think of beautiful scenery, black and nearly-black aren’t often in the landscapes I picture. But this one is … well, stunning.

Framing the scene is a pair of trees that, from daytime observation, I know are the standard brown and green. But in the absence of sunlight, they have darkened to jet black cutouts of their daytime selves. Between them I can see the deep blue sky, pierced by one spot of nearly pure-white brightness — the moon, bowl-shaped tonight, tipped just a bit toward the south. Below the moon, a long wispy cloud has been slashed into segments by high atmospheric air currents. The resulting cloud pieces resemble nothing so much as wraiths marching single-file from south to north. As I watch, I can even see them moving, shifting shape and form just as in my imagination I suppose wraiths might do in a visitation to this midnight world.

These imaginary wraiths are not of the earth, though, but of the sea, for it is the ocean over which they are marching. The ocean appears much calmer at this distance than i know that it must be. I can hear it, and while I recognize it as the same sound I hear in the daylight when I stand on the shore and watch the waves, it sounds different, somehow, in the darkness — wilder, more mysterious. This perception of mystery and wonder is heightened by the wide reflection resting on the surface of the sea: the moonlight which seems fairly well contained within the sky has spread out over nearly the entire visible width of the water. It shimmers (and while that word may be overused, I believe this is the perfect use of that word. If the motion of light dancing across a moving surface of water is not the original definition of “shimmer” … well then, it should be) and shifts like a reflection divorced from its source, similar to how it might appear were I to stand in front of my bathroom mirror to shave, only to find my reflection is waltzing back and forth across the bathroom.

The foghorn sounds. It is not needed at this moment — any ship’s captain worth his salt could navigate the entrance to the bay easily with the abundant moonlight. But in this climate, in this place, that could change in just a few minutes, and so the foghorn lets out its melancholy cry. It cannot know, of course, that a few hundred yards away, I am listening, snapped out of my reverie by its sound.

Beauty is around us at all hours of the day and night. Just look — even in the darkness, let your pupils dilate and take in all the light that you can. You might be surprised at what you see.

I took this picture just after sunrise on Holy Saturday. There’s a whisper of the Divine in it. May you have a Holy and Blessed Easter.

Up on the hill, there’s a cross with a black shroud draped across it. It’s an unavoidable reminder to anyone driving past that today has special meaning.

As a youth pastor, I get to hear all the latest slang. Now, I confess, sometimes I don’t notice it until it’s already lost its novelty. No master of hipness am I, by any means. But I’ve picked up on one the past few months. “Sick.” It means … awesome, fantastic, great, incredible. It caught me a little off guard, and you probably won’t hear me using it, since I’m an old fogey. It shouldn’t have surprised me though. I mean, I’m part of the generation that told each other things were “wicked” and “bad”, with the meaning that they were … well, awesome, fantastic, great, or incredible.

Words are always being reinvented and repurposed. Perhaps teenagers of generations hence will express admiration for the hottest bands and grooviest movies by saying they’re “fatal”. (Actually, I kind of like that. “Dude, have you seen that new flick? It’s totally fatal.”) Paris Hiltons of the future will look dreamily into the camera and proclaim that the new sparkly-spangly purse is soooo fatal.

Anyway, what does this have to do with the black-shrouded cross? It’s simple.

Today is Good Friday.

And yet … we are remembering an act that stands among the list of tragedies for the ages. A man who came to change the world was beaten, tortured, marched through the city, and attached to a wooden cross with metal spikes. He was brutally stabbed in the side, and the blood and water flowed, mingling with drops of blood already streaming from the wounds inflicted by the thorns piercing His head. After all that, He died, abandoned by most of His friends; even His own Father turned His back on Him.

The day set aside to focus on that horrible experience is called GOOD.

It’s bad, alright. It’s sick. It was even fatal.

But it was Good.

In that moment of sacrifice, in that moment of surrender … He conquered death. He conquered sin.

The Victor, already crowned, slipped behind enemy lines. The enemy thought he had won; he thought it was over.

And it was … but not in the way the enemy thought.

In that mystical, miraculous, momentous event … eternity was opened to the mortal. The gap was bridged, the gates were flung open, the welcoming party began.

The black shroud is appropriate for the horror experienced by the God-Man on that day.

But oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes. It was GOOD.

How deep the Father’s love for us,
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss,
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One,
Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross,
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocing voice,
Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I knoww that it is finished

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast inJesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom.

— Stuart Townend

A man celebrated his golden wedding anniversary by eating a 50-year-old tin of chicken.

Les and Beryl Lailey, of Denton, Gtr Manchester, were given the chicken in a hamper on their wedding day in 1956.

The Buxted Chicken tin remained in their kitchen cupboard until the couple marked 50 years together this month.

“We kept it safe, and I always said ‘on my 50th wedding anniversary I’m going to eat that chicken’ - so I did,” said former soldier, Mr Lailey, aged 73.

“When we got married I’d just come out of the Army and we had very little money, so we did our own buffet.

“We got a hamper as a present and included in it was this whole chicken in a tin. We didn’t use it and packed it away and kept it.”

Tight vacuum

Mr Lailey, a former soldier, said he had not felt ill since eating the chicken.

The pair met at an Irish pub in Hulme, Manchester.

“I had to go back to the Army almost straight after we met, but we kept in touch by writing letters. I came home and we got married,” Mr Lailey added.

Prof Eunice Taylor, a food safety expert at the University of Salford, said: “Canned food can last indefinitely if it has been sealed properly, although the normal shelf life is about six months.

“If it’s done at high temperatures and under high pressure, then the process should create a tight vacuum.

“If anyone is going to eat old canned food, I would suggest they heat it thoroughly first of all, just in case to be extra safe.”