The Procession of the Holy Burial (A Memory of My Childhood)

My grandmother, Virginia, possessed a deep and enviable devotion to the Catholic faith. In our small town of Chinameca, the leadership she shared with her husband, my grandfather Enrique, from whom I was named after, made her an influential figure in many decisions surrounding church life.

Although my grandfather wasn’t particularly devout, he rarely attended Mass or other religious services, his voice carried remarkable weight. So much so that Father Montesinos and later Father Ventura often relied on my grandparents’ judgment when making important decisions about church events.

I was about six or seven years old when I first witnessed the preparations for the Good Friday procession during Holy Week. That year, however, something unexpected happened.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my grandparents’ living room, absorbed in old comics my grandfather had collected over the years, pages from Sunday papers filled with adventures of Tarzan and Buck Rogers. The house was quiet, wrapped in the slow rhythm of the day, when suddenly Arturo Gómez arrived, asking for my grandmother.

Arturo was an imposing man, almost gigantic, but his gentleness softened his presence. He spoke quietly and carried himself with sincere kindness. That year, he was in charge of the procession of the Holy Burial.

There was worry in his voice as he explained the problem: the urn for the Holy Burial procession had been damaged. While cleaning it in preparation, he discovered it was completely unusable.

My grandmother’s reaction was immediate. Alarmed, she called my grandfather to share the news. Soon after, my mother arrived, followed by several others from the church. I don’t remember the exact conversations, but I could feel their intensity, the weight of urgency in the air. Rosa Elena and Ticha began serving coffee and, “semita-alta” the artisan sweet bread filled with pineapple jam sprinkled with brown sugar on top, from the Martínez bakery. That small detail stayed with me, as if sweetness were needed to balance the tension.

Days later, the procession platform was moved into our garage. Though I didn’t fully understand it at the time, a decision had been made: my grandmother would oversee the entire design of the Holy Burial procession.

Our home transformed overnight into a bustling workshop. People came and went; voices overlapped; tools, fabrics, and wires filled every corner. And at the center of it all stood my grandmother, firm, focused, unwavering, like the quiet director of a solemn, sacred production.

She decided to use the same image of Christ that was usually kept inside the reliquary. It needed restoration, so it was brought into our home, where my mother carefully began cleaning and repainting it.

To me, as a child, the image was deeply unsettling: the wounded body of Christ, barely covered, with a loincloth, marked by visible scars and dried blood. My mother, aware of how it might affect me, asked Rosa Elena to place it in the living room and cover it with sheets, as though protecting not just the image, but also my innocence.

Meanwhile, my grandmother and Arturo oversaw the construction on the platform.

That week felt endless filled with urgency, devotion, and quiet determination. Days later, I watched as they placed the restored image of Christ onto a bed of clouds made from paper and cotton, gently cradled in the arms of an image representing God the Father.

I remembered that earlier, volunteers from the church had brought another figure: just the upper torso of Jesus. My grandmother and mother spent hours transforming it, painting the hair and beard white, until it became a powerful representation of God the Father. The final scene was breathtaking: tender and solemn, as though the Son had finally returned to the eternal embrace of His Father.

Curious, I asked Arturo one day if everything was ready. He smiled faintly and told me that a few final details remained, the decoration of the platform’s edges and the archangels.

Soon after, several volunteers arrived carrying four angel figures, each about my height. My grandfather carefully removed their wings, while my grandmother measured and planned their new attire: Roman centurion uniforms.

Each angel would become an archangel, marked by symbolic attributes.

Though tradition names seven archangels, only four would stand at the corners of the platform:

Michael, with his sword, the leader of the heavenly host. Gabriel, with his trumpet, the divine messenger, Raphael, with the Rod of Asclepius, the protector of travelers and Uriel, with a cornucopia, a symbol of wisdom and abundance.

My grandmother crafted each symbol by hand using wire and cardboard. They were astonishing: a gladius-like sword, a golden trumpet made from a cardboard tube, a bamboo walking stick painted with care, and a beautifully shaped cornucopia formed from corrugated cardboard. Everything was handmade yet each was a piece of art. 

Then came another problem: the archangels were barefoot.

My mother came up with a solution, she would make Roman sandals, caligae, using black cardboard from my grandfather’s printing press. It was meticulous work, almost surgical in its precision, born from creativity and necessity.

Finally, by Holy Thursday, everything was ready or so we thought.

At the last moment, my grandmother had an idea: Gabriel shouldn’t simply hold the trumpet, he should be playing it, proclaiming with heavenly force. Determined, she climbed onto the platform to adjust the figure’s arms and in doing so, one small movement changed everything, she broke them. Panic spread instantly.

With less than twenty-four hours before the procession, Gabriel’s arms had to be repaired, and a new trumpet made, since the original had been damaged as well.

Someone found wire. Someone else brought artisan glue used for shoes. Working quickly, nervously, they improvised, reattaching the arms as best they could and securing the trumpet once again.

Against all odds, the procession went on.

That night, the chariot moved forward with solemn majesty. People watched in awe, deeply moved by the scene: Christ returning to the arms of the Father. There was reverence, silence, emotion. All the effort, the exhaustion, the worry, had been worth it.

My father and I watched from the front porch of my grandparents’ house. As the procession passed, he leaned slightly toward me and said, “Look closely at Gabriel’s arms.”

I did. “Do you notice anything strange?” he asked. I shook my head.

Then, with a quiet smile, he said, “They’re reversed. The right arm is on the left shoulder… and the left on the right.”

I looked again, and suddenly, I saw it.

The thumbs pointed outward in an unnatural way.

I don’t know if anyone else noticed.

From that moment on, I could never look at the archangel Gabriel again without remembering that, amidst so much devotion, effort, and love… his arms had remained forever reversed.