Good Friday and what it means to me.

Today is Anzac Day and we always pause to remember the day.

I'll never forget being in Anzac Cove, Turkey for Anzac Day in 2002

or marching with my grandpa  when we were kids.

However in our family, Good Friday has just as much reverence as Anzac Day.

Good Friday marks the Seige of Tobruk in 1941 in which my Grandpa fought in.

Every year my Grandfather and his Rats of Tobruk mates always
gathered to  commenorate the anniversary of the  day with a service, a yarn and a beer.

Since his passing, my Mum and Aunty have taken to organising the day.

This year, my brother and I read out some of my Pa's old letters that he sent from the frontline.

We are so blessed to have these letters.

Lil brother and I trying to keep emotions in check

Ernie and Arthur who fought alongside my Pa in Second World War.

Just like the days when my Ma and Pa organised the event,

yarns were told,

brass bands played,

anthems were sang,

wreaths were layed,

there was a raffle, sandwiches, cups of tea and pots of beer.

Mostly, we remembered. 

In words and in silence.

The great sacrifices these men and woman made,

and the struggles, memories and injuries that they brought home with them.

So, as I read on Good Friday, today on Anzac Day,
I paused to remember, cried at the last post
and will raise a glass of beer to my beloved Pa and his mates.

Lest We Forget.