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

My grandmother Virginia, my mom’s mom, had a deep and enviable devotion to the Catholic faith. In Chinameca, our small town, the leadership she shared with her husband, my grandfather Miguel 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 any 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 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, who was a typographer who owns the only printing press in town, had collected over the years, from the 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 kindness. He was what one can call a devout Christian who dedicated himself to activities related to the church. That year, he was in charge of leading the procession of the Holy Burial on good Friday.

As he asked for my grandmother one could see his distress and heard the worrisome in his voice as he explained the problem: the urn that historically had carried the statue in the procession of the Holy Burial was damaged. While Arturo was cleaning the urn, it in preparation, he discovered that it was completely unusable.

My grandmother’s reaction was immediate. Alarmed, she called my grandfather to share the news. Soon after, my mom arrived, followed by several other church members. I don’t remember how the conversations evolved, but I could feel their intensity, the weight of urgency in the air. Julia and Ticha, my grandparents’ helpers 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 platform, where the urn used to be mounted, 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 energetic 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 no so quiet director of a solemn, sacred production.

It was decided to use the same image of Christ that was usually kept inside the reliquary. However, 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 Jesus, barely covered, with a loincloth, marked by visible scars and dried blood. My mother, aware of how it might affect me, asked Julia to place it in the living room and cover it with sheets, as though protecting not just the image, but also our innocence.

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

That week felt endlessly 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.

The day before the Good Friday procession, 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. "Archangels?" I asked. "there will be an archangel in each of the courners of the platform" he responded. 

Soon after, several volunteers arrived carrying four angel figures, each about my height. My grandfather, with the help of other church volunteers carefully removed their wings, while my grandmother measured and planned their new attires, their tunics were removed to dress them with uniforms of Roman centurions.

Each angel would become an archangel, marked by its 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 healer and protector of travelers and Uriel, with a cornucopia, a symbol of wisdom and abundance.

My grandmother, who was very creative and artistic, 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 to make it look like a walking staff 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 mom came up with a solution, she would make Roman sandals, caligae, using black construction paper from my grandfather’s printing press. It was meticulous work, almost surgical in its precision, born from creativity and necessity. I was tasked with the role of finding the largest pieces of construction paper so my mom could cut and paste the sandals on the archangels. 

Finally, by the evening of Thursday, everything was ready or so we thought.

At the last moment, my grandmother had an idea: Gabriel shouldn’t simply hold the trumpet on his arms, he should be playing it, proclaiming with heavenly force. Determined to adjust his arms, she climbed on a small ladder onto the platform beside the where the archangel was holding the improvised trumpet and began to adjust the figure’s arms.

In doing so, one small movement changed everything, she broke the archangel’s arms and as the arms became loose so was her standing. The only reason she didn’t hurt herself as she fall from the small ladder was because Arturo Gomez was behind her and was able to prevent a mayor catastrophe.

However, panic spread instantly the archangel was on the ground with no arms and the trumpet destroyed.

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

Everyone in the house became focus on how to repair Gabriel’s arms and made a new trumpet Someone found wire. Someone else brought artisan glue used for shoes. At the same time Arturo focus in calming down my grandmother that after the stumble was stressed and crying. My mom focused on made the new trumpet. 

Everybody else concentrated in fixing the archangel’s arms.  Working quickly, nervously, they improvised, reattaching the arms as best they could and as soon my mom created the new the trumpet was attached on the arms as they were before the accident. Before the procession during Thursday night or Friday before dawn, volunteers moved the platform from our garage to the church from where the procession would begin. I didn’t see the moving I was sent to bed at my usual time. 

Against all odds, on Good Friday evening the procession went on.  The night of the procession 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 dad 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 inward 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.