Fellow-blogger Jen of
"Et tu, Jen?" has chronicled her Lenten journey toward entering the Catholic Church this Easter. I have been pondering Easter- and Triduum-posts over the past several days, but did not know quite where to begin or what to say. But here's a bit of a remembrance. . .
When I entered the Church, it was on Halloween, not Easter (oddly enough)--I was Confirmed with a college Confirmation class and Baptized by the Bishop just before the Confirmation. But the rites involving the Elect always make me teary, remembering, and Easter was when I first knew with certainty that I not only desired with all of my heart to become Catholic, but that I
would be Catholic in time.
It is interesting, perhaps, to note at this point that the Lent after I became Catholic and we had our marriage blessed, I was pregnant (no coincidence, there! It finally seemed "time" to have another baby). The following Lent, I was breastfeeding. This Lent, I was pregnant! Basically, what this means is no fasting! Actually, I did fast on Ash Wednesday, but I found it very difficult--both to muster up the will to fast and to physically maintain the strength. I found out a few days later why it was so difficult! So Lent for me opened on a rather un-spiritual note. I believe the spiritual aspects of Lent kicked in for me a few weeks before Easter, when Fr. Michael called up the RCIA candidates and sponsors and had the congregation kneel during the petitions and a laying on of hands (not necessarily in that order). I couldn't help thinking of this experience when reading Jen's blog. A friend informs me that it was likely
one of the Scrutinies, and indeed, my husband noted that it had a very ancient "feel." From the time the Catechumens came forward until when we rose, I found myself crying. . . and I can't just relegate it to pregnancy hormones! :) Nothing like that has happened to me in years. I am very grateful for those moments.
The services leading up to Easter are my favorites of the liturgical year. The Holy Thursday mass, for me, is the most special and significant, celebrating as it does the institution of the Eucharist. Since my son had already been to mass at school that morning, my husband & I asked my mother to stay with my son & daughter (our first "date" this year, and we went to mass!) and went to the mass alone. This year, there was more emphasis on the washing of the feet than on the institution of the Eucharist, which led to a homily about service, in which Father revealed that he was ordained on the day of the Live Aid concert. It was incredible to hear him speak of his experience, and even more incredible to hear this slightly severe English-educated Irish priest choke a little on his words--a bit during the homily, but again when accepting the oils that had been blessed at the Chrism Mass earlier in the week. The foot-washing was done among the congregation, which meant that those seated around the chosen felt an acute sense of awkwardness--as it should be, I believe. And for anyone who follows these things, the priests of this parish washed the feet of men and women, emphasizing the common role of service of all of the baptized rather than the strict theological interpretation favored by some that sees in the washing of the feet the institution of the priesthood among the disciples. There is value in both interpretations, but it seems that if the latter interpretation were played out in the mass, only the feet of the ordained should be washed. After a long, beautiful mass, we rather guiltily snuck out of the adoration--the "watching with" Jesus present in the Eucharist to rejoin our little ones, the smallest of whom was missing her momma.
Holy Thursday always reminds me of a poem by Alfred de Vigny that I translated when I was an undergrad: "Le Mont des Oliviers":
Then it was night, and Jesus walked alone/ Clothed in white, like one who is already dead/ the disciples slept at the feet of the hill,/ Towards the olives, a sinister wind blew. . . A few lines later:
He fell to his knees, his chest against the earth;/ Then looking at the sky, called, "Oh My Father!"/ -But the sky was black, and God did not respond. While this revels that the interpretation is not strictly Orthodox (what French poem is?), the sense of agony made a deep impression on me. Alas! So did the sense of futility communicated by the poem, but that is more complex, something that is still moving, though not because of its truth. It is a beautiful poem, and I always think of it at this time of year.
Good Friday, the whole family went to the 2-hour service, much to the consternation of the 18-month old! But, all things considered, she didn't do too badly. It was solemn and beautiful, though differently so, and the 10-year-old was a bit concerned about the adoration of the cross. I understand; I can't bring myself to kiss the cross. I confided to him that this is truly the weirdest thing that we do in the Church all year--but that it is a sign of respect and reverence. Surely, no one can deny that it is a bit weird. But I also let him know that whatever he was comfortable doing was fine. I came to realize that the color scheme of the church can influence one's perception of the service. The past 2 years, we have attended a church with a white interior. When shadows fall, they are cold and grey. The church we have been attending is brown and warm--my friend has said, like a hunting lodge. When it is dark, therefore, it still retains the warmth of the wood and brick in the shadows. On Good Friday, the cold and grey is more effective.
Our pastor (I haven't officially changed our affiliation, but we will) was trying, on Palm Sunday, to induce everyone to attend the entire Triduum, in which he was remarkably successful, given the attendance on Thursday and Friday. But no one can tell me that the correct thing to do with a family is to attend the Easter Vigil. We attended twice; once to see a friend confirmed, but the Baptisms were brief. The second time, 40-something were Baptized, and my son, who was old enough not to squirm, fell asleep. My husband and I were asked to do a reading during the Vigil after I entered the Church, which is why we were there. Admittedly, it was beautiful, but I have come to realize that the Easter Vigil is not really part of the cultural celebration of Easter. This may not be a valid argument for some, but when you consider that the RCIA program was not even in place until relatively recently, the Vigil only recently recovered the significance that it holds in the Church today. This weekend, I had particular pity for those who were to have a full-immersion baptism in the frigid rear section of the church, particularly the one we attended last year and the years before, on a 40-ish degree day with sleet and rain. It must've been chilly.
There is something about the light streaming onto the altar on Easter Sunday that holds a special significance for me--it imparts the joy of Easter. I prefer last years' gospel in which Mary Magdalen discovers the empty tomb and Jesus, whom she "supposed to be the gardener." This line, too, takes on special significance because of literature, in this case, 'The Gardener" by Kipling. But of course, Easter is always beautiful.
I missed hearing this year the gospel devoted to the "good thief." But he was mentioned, and this is always a special passage for me.
In all of this, pregnancy has presented some special challenges. I already mentioned the inability to fast. This also extended to an inability to abstain from meat, which, yes, is allowed. I have seen some holier-than-though male bloggers confidently declare that while a pregnant woman can certainly forgo fasting, that there can be no reason for her not to abstain from meat on Fridays, since there are so many
other forms of protein. I only hope the woman who asked the question does not hold herself to such a standard. Her pastor will tell her otherwise. And I wish that the person who made the declaration could experience morning sickness--or the milder facsimile that I experience, in which
only certain foods will prevent the nausea. And this means that when you need chicken nuggets, a fish fillet will not suffice. I tried. And then there was the day that my little piece of toast with the cheese melted on top sat
all day on the table with one bite taken out of it. Yes, it was protein. But it was clearly not the protein that my body wanted at that particular time. Meat has the advantage of being, in some forms, rather easy on the stomach compared to cheese, tofu, and certainly the quicker forms of fish, which generally involve grease. I haven't even had much of a taste for shrimp.
So this weekend, fasting before mass and then sitting through longer-than-usual-services was a challenge. Sunday was not a good day for it. I also believe that, having waited an interminably long time for incense in the mass, the particular blend of incense was not agreeable to my pregnant sense of smell. It was beautiful to inhale the smoke drifting towards us, but it settled in the space between and above my eyes for the entire mass, and carried into the day beyond the end of mass. I have never had problems with incense before, and I hope that this problem does not recur throughout the Easter season. I love incense.
So the family parts of Easter were a bit messed up by my headache and stomach-y issues, work schedules of my siblings, and the baby girl's nap schedule. But my son and brother (who is 12) had an egg hunt in my mother's house, and our potato salad and pork loin were excellent. On Saturday, my brother came to dye eggs with my son and I cooked a pot-roast, a rare event for me, since cooking meat intimidates me. And now my husband can have chocolate again, and coffee from Starbucks, which is real cause for celebration!
I seem to lack some pithy conclusion, or even a natural end like the end of a journey. I hope everyone's Easter was as blessed as mine has been, and that if your Lenten journey was difficult, as mine was, that there was cause for joy at its conclusion. I believe that I was my own offering for Lent, and that becoming used to this pregnancy was my task. My doubts will continue to surface over the next months, but I believe that the initial darkness passed--rather quickly, actually. Now, if the nausea would pass also. . .
