March 26: Dolorous Tuesday, Choke to Death, the Annunciation

Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry.  I couldn't help it.  I did it so nobody could hear me, but I did it.  It scared hell out of old Phoebe when I started doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam dime.  I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put her old arm around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still couldn't stop for a long time.  I thought I was going to choke to death or something.  Boy, I scared hell out of poor old Phoebe.  The damn window was open and everything, and I could feel her shivering and all, because all she had on was her pajamas.  I tried to make her get back in bed, but she wouldn't go.  Finally I stopped.  But it certainly took me a long, long time.

Yesterday, I promised to provide names for the three days of Holy Week without special titles.  Yesterday I christened Lachrymose Monday.  Today is...Dolorous Tuesday.

"Dolorous" means "causing, marked by, or expressing misery or grief."  That's certainly what Holden is doing in the passage above.  He becomes so overwhelmed by sadness and desperation that all he can do is sit on his little sister's bed and weep.  Phoebe tries to comfort her brother as best as she can, but she is young and doesn't understand the workings of grief.  Holden doesn't understand them, either.  He is simply the poster child for dolor.

I'm not quite as unsettled as I was yesterday.  My emotions aren't as quicksilver.  Last night, I went to a Faith Formation session with my daughter at one of the local Catholic churches.  The deacon spoke about the meanings and traditions of Easter.  He really didn't say a whole lot about the actual Easter Triduum (Maunday Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil) that I didn't already know.  It was the discussion after his lecture that made me stop and think.  In fact, it was one question he asked:  "What does Easter mean to you?"

Of course, I was sitting in a church filled with lifelong Catholics, so all the standard answers were offered:  salvation, resurrection, redemption, forgiveness.  Each time someone brought up one of these old chestnuts, it was all I could do not to roll my eyes.  I mean, they sounded like they were quoting answers they learned in second grade cathecism.  I was waiting for something more real or surprising.

I, of course, never opened my mouth.  I didn't want to be drawn into a discussion where I had to explain my answer.

What does Easter mean to me?  It means Christmas.

That's right, I said Christmas.  That's why I didn't want to open my mouth last night.  Yesterday, March 25, was the feast day of the Annunciation of the Lord.  That's the day Gabriel appeared to Mary and told her she was going to bear the Christ Child.  It's also celebrates the conception of Christ in Mary's womb.  In nine months, we will be celebrating Christmas Day once again.  And the feast of the Annunciation usually comes right around the end of Lent or during Holy Week.  I think that's significant.

In my mind, Christmas and Easter are linked.  Christmas is all about hope and light.  Easter is all about hope and light.  Christmas is about a promise made.  Easter is about a promise kept.  Christmas is a period at the end of the Old Testament sentence.  A quiet, humble sentence.  Easter is the exclamation point at the beginning of the New Testament sentence.  A blaring horn of a sentence.

Yet, on the day Gabriel appeared to her, Mary knew.  She knew about everything her baby would have to endure.  The crowds and the prison.  The thorns and scourges.  The hill and the cross.  The tomb.  The Annunciation is about dolor as much as it is about joy.  And so is Christmas.  Ditto Easter.  That's the story of humankind.  Periods of joy.  Periods of grief.  Quiet moments of reading and chocolate in between.

Welcome to Dolorous Tuesday of Holy Week.

That's Saint Marty's answer.

Mary doesn't look overjoyed here