Easter Sunday, 2018
Busy, joyous, cathartic day. The older I get, the more meaningful this page of the Christian calendar becomes. And, it's funny because my family doesn't have any real traditions associated with it. I don't recall any elaborate meals served on that day. It did not mark the ending of Lent because Lent itself was not a part of our observance.
We had Easter baskets as young children. And, the dyeing of Easter eggs. However, I don't think either tradition survived the move to Queens because, by then, I certainly would have been too old and I doubt Sis would have evinced any interest either once she entered school. I vaguely remember giving my Mom an Easter greeting card for a time, but, that sort of went the way of Valentine cards for Mom once I hit puberty. Basically, Easter has evolved into a strictly religious holiday now, one that I associate more or less exclusively with the St. Michael's community.
So, it was with a little bit of a guilty conscience that I celebrated my brother's and my birthdays on Holy Saturday, missing Easter Vigil for the first time in three years. Holy Week came early this year and suddenly March became a train wreck of opposing community obligations. RC practically mandated a community-wide Seder the Wednesday following Palm Sunday and I was so into the character of Jesus that I could feel myself having a panic attack as I approached Daniel and Leslie's house with my assignment: bringing the horseradish, an orange and a head of lettuce.
I deposited the items in Leslie's kitchen, paid my "workshop fee" of $20 (don't ask) and promptly disappeared out the door. I would text back that I had to leave because of a headache. I have a feeling I have yet to feel the full ramifications of ducking out of there.
I think everyone had similar stories. It's been a hard Lent. You could feel it by the time we finished Communion yesterday with a rousing rendition of "I Am The Bread of Life" (#335). Even Tom Cahill, who is a tough critic of St. Michael's liturgical style, let loose with a shout at the end.
We had Easter baskets as young children. And, the dyeing of Easter eggs. However, I don't think either tradition survived the move to Queens because, by then, I certainly would have been too old and I doubt Sis would have evinced any interest either once she entered school. I vaguely remember giving my Mom an Easter greeting card for a time, but, that sort of went the way of Valentine cards for Mom once I hit puberty. Basically, Easter has evolved into a strictly religious holiday now, one that I associate more or less exclusively with the St. Michael's community.
So, it was with a little bit of a guilty conscience that I celebrated my brother's and my birthdays on Holy Saturday, missing Easter Vigil for the first time in three years. Holy Week came early this year and suddenly March became a train wreck of opposing community obligations. RC practically mandated a community-wide Seder the Wednesday following Palm Sunday and I was so into the character of Jesus that I could feel myself having a panic attack as I approached Daniel and Leslie's house with my assignment: bringing the horseradish, an orange and a head of lettuce.
I deposited the items in Leslie's kitchen, paid my "workshop fee" of $20 (don't ask) and promptly disappeared out the door. I would text back that I had to leave because of a headache. I have a feeling I have yet to feel the full ramifications of ducking out of there.
I think everyone had similar stories. It's been a hard Lent. You could feel it by the time we finished Communion yesterday with a rousing rendition of "I Am The Bread of Life" (#335). Even Tom Cahill, who is a tough critic of St. Michael's liturgical style, let loose with a shout at the end.