Easter Monday

1. Husband arises, eats accustomed breakfast, finds what he can find for a "lunch" of some sort, and exits very near his accustomed time for his accustomed job.

2. Wife still in robe and jammies, albeit clean ones now. Proof of impending better health: more time in the computer chair each time attempted.

3. Uncle/brother up early enough to go to the store for candy and a box of ("fresh") donuts from the store, which donuts made youngest bearded giant finally extract himself from the sleeping bag on the living room floor. This was followed by the sounds of John Mayer and the splashing of the shower from the bathroom. Shower sounds with music sounds is the sure and certain proof that Steve's home.

4. Slightly taller, more bearded young giant now also awake and eating pumpkin pie for breakfast "because otherwise the terrorists win."

Yeah ... life's back to normal.

It's a problem

From chapter six of what is turning out to be an utterly delightful and encouraging book from Carolyn See,

The implication was that there was a serious apprenticeship, even for reading, to say nothing of the one for writing, and that to presume to write something down took an enormous leap of both faith and pride. (Pride, as most of us with a Christian upbringing remember, is the first and foremost deadly sin.) So you had to be pure of heart before you started to write, but also full of pride. Already, before you wrote the first the, you were screwed by your own unworthiness.

Ain't it the truth, Carolyn. Ain't it the truth.

Holy Women

The holy women at the tomb of Christ
Annibale Carracci (1560-1609)

Was it women's work to dress the dead body with the spices? Or did they go to do it because it was the first chance to do anything at all that felt the least bit useful - the day before had been the Sabbath - was it that they simply could not wait a moment longer to tend to their Beloved?

It's not yet 4:30 in the morning, and I am the only one at home. The others have gone to church. Only two people in the car for the Easter Vigil this year. Not six, with the little one sitting on a lap. Not five after the uncle went away. Not four after the daughter went away. Not even three this year, because only one son has gone from home, but the mom is not in the car with the dad and the one son who goes with him. This year there's no one in the back seat for the first time. This year I am not there to greet the risen Lord in the garden. It's a bit surreal.

But I think that if I had been there - back then - all those centuries ago, I mean - I think that I would have been there - in the garden. Before it got light. That would have felt surreal too. I and my friend - we would be grim faced and determnined even if a little afraid. How could he be dead? He could not be dead. But ... we had seen him die. We know what has happened. We saw the blood and water flow from His side. We know what happened. He is dead.

Nothing would have stopped us from ministering to him in the only way left to us. We would have gone. "As it began toward the first day of the week," we would have gone there. I wonder ... would we have been remembering and trying to understand? Would we have been looking at each other and neither of us daring to say it? Do you remember when He said, "three days?" Do you think He might have meant ...?

It's 4:30 in the morning. We're about to find out the Truth.

Sneak up

"Sneak up on your material.
Don't go crashing after it through the forest
with a machete.
Sit down,
be quiet,
let the material catch up with you."

Carolyn See, Making a Literary Life: Advice for Writers and Other Dreamers

See that? It flashes by in my mind every once in awhile. Wait for it ... wait for it ... look! There it is again. Like a falling star - I have to be looking sort of out of the side of my eye - using my peripheral vision. But every once in awhile, I see it. The creative act of writing (or painting or sculpting or making music) is a religious - no ... it's a spiritual experience. The act of creativity always requires the practice of inner silence -- or ... um ... inner readiness. Inner listening. It does not require the kind of readiness that can only take place somewhere, someday, in some idealized setting where nothing will intrude. No, creation needs only the kind of inner readiness that sees and openly welcomes each small particle and every open space - not looking for ways to fill the space, but being willing to inhabit it. The act of creation is love with breath in it.

Good Friday

Today, for the Western Church, is called Good Friday - a day we call "good" because it is the day when the most bad thing that has ever happened brought the whole of the world the most good. Tonight my husband and sons will be at church, and I will not be. I was not at church last night for the Maundy either. (Maundy Thursday is so called because "maundatum" is the "new commandment" Christ gave as he knelt to wash the feet of his disciples - the new commandment is that we "love one another" as he has loved us.)

The reason I have not been at church is because I have been completely laid low by some particularly virulent strain of something related to the common cold or flu. For the first time in 13 years, I'm home during all of Holy Week.

I have been blowing my nose, hoping my forehead doesn't crack and burst. And I have been sneezing and hoping my forehead doesn't crack and burst. And I have been coughing and hoping my forehead doesn't crack and burst. And I have been crying - and finding relief for the pressure in my head as the tears take away some of the pain that is coming from I know not where. Nowhere in particular, maybe. Everywhere at once, is what it feels like.

The painting is Roger van der Weyden's Crucifixion. Tonight, while the congregation sings the hymns of contrition and pain, I will hear them without being there to hear them. As the choir chants one of the most beautiful and sorrowful pieces of music in the world (the Good Friday "Reproaches") and one by one, in quiet and usually tearful procession, the people make their three double-genuflections and then kneel one at a time to kiss the foot of the cross, I will hear them. "O my people, what have I done unto thee? Or wherein have I wearied thee? Testify against me." I will hear them, without being with them. In an oddly equal and opposite form, I will be in the Narthex again.

Perhaps this illness is a gift. Perhaps my inability to participate in a way that brings each small sound and the smell of incense to my body is a new access for me. From here I can see and hear a broader spectrum of the whole. There have been a dozen repetitions of this week already embedded in the deepest part of my soul's ears and eyes and tongue. I know this Week. This year, I see the beauty and pain and joy from a hill outside the town. In my mind's eye I watch what I cannot see, and I have never seen it like this before. It is beautiful.

Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!

Oh what fear man's bosom rendeth,
when from heaven the Judge descendeth,
on whose sentence all dependeth.