Breathing on a Prayer

When I woke up this morning, things were lookin' bad,
Seem like total silence was the only friend I had…”
--John Prine

The text message I received this morning caught me completely by surprise.

“Happy Easter,” it said.

Those two words made no sense to me. Happy what? And what's with the cartoon rabbit image?

And then I remembered: today is Easter Sunday.

The text was from a woman I’ve been dating—or had been dating pre-pandemic. It was very thoughtful of her to contact me, especially since she’s Jewish.

So, eight years of Catholic school, where I was terrorized into memorizing the Catechism under the threat of eternal damnation and a smack on the head, and I had somehow forgotten the most important day in the Christian calendar and had to be brought up to speed by somebody outside the church?

I could almost hear my fifth-grade nun, Sister Frances, climbing out of her grave and heading toward my house with a ruler in her hand.

Of course, in my defense nothing really looks or feels like Easter this year.

Stores and businesses are closed, people can’t gather in large groups, the news is dominated by the daily COV-19 death toll and the deranged ravings of that seething hemorrhoid in the White House, and, oh, yeah, we’re all wearing fucking masks.

In the past I never had to be told what day it was. It was something I knew the moment I opened my eyes. I could just feel that it was Easter.

Normally, I’d have a holiday dinner with my sister and auntie at my sister’s apartment. We’d start with glasses of Prosecco, work through the appetizers and then on to the main course.

We’d tell stories about the family and I’d cry when my mother’s name came up. I’d have too much wine, unleash my obnoxious inebriated alter ego, Senor Prosecco, and then fall asleep on the couch.

Now it’s hand sanitizers, gloves, and social distancing, and we’re all stuck in our respective apartments praying for this curse to cease and desist.

A Tale of Two Walks

At least I didn’t eat meat on Good Friday, so hopefully Sister Frances will stay put.

It was so cold and damp on Friday, and thoughts of rebirth and renewal were the furthest thing from my mind as I walked home from a shopping run in a mini-blizzard.

The wind got stronger as I marched toward my house and the groceries got heavier, and I had to suddenly answer the call of nature. I could feel the anger rising because my walk outside had gone to hell so quickly.

And then I remembered that somebody had gone on a walk on this very day 2,000 years ago. It was His last walk, though, and instead of carrying groceries, He was lugging a cross.

He wasn’t going to a nice, warm apartment, but to a spot called the Place of Skulls where He would be nailed to that cross.

The human race has a cross to bear now and it looks like we’ll be carrying it for quite a while.

I went for another walk this morning. The sun was out this time, thank God, and I walked up Shore Road all the way to the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

It felt good doing something physical outdoors and away from those YouTube exercise videos. And it was nice to see other people outside. I smiled at them as I went by even though I was wearing a mask.

When I got home the phone calls from my family started coming in and I realized how lucky I am to have these people in my life, especially now when so many families are suffering and we're losing people at an astonishing, horrific rate.

It started to feel a little bit like Easter again.

The earliest Christians had to celebrate the holidays in hiding to avoid being slaughtered by the Romans. Now it’s our turn to lay low until the danger has passed.

Happy Easter.