However, I did not play any church service tonight. Instead, I did laundry, wrote some poetry, practiced music for Easter morning, and put together some baskets from my son and wife. (No egg hunt this year, per my 17-year-old son.) After I’m done typing this post, I’m going to read a little Hemingway. Maybe watch a movie (The Passion of the Christ perhaps). There will be plenty of liturgy and singing in my life tomorrow morning.
Marie Howe sings . . .
Hymn
by: Marie Howe
It began as an almost inaudible hum,
low and long for the solar winds
and far dim galaxies,
a hymn growing louder, for the moon and the sun,
a song without words for the snow falling,
for snow conceiving snow
conceiving rain, the rivers rushing without shame,
the hum turning again higher—into a riff of ridges
peaks hard as consonants,
summits and praise for the rocky faults and crust and crevices
then down down to the roots and rocks and burrows
the lakes’ skitters surfaces, wells, oceans, breaking
waves, the salt-deep; the warm bodies moving within it;
the cold deep; the deep underneath gleaming, some of us rising
as the planet turned into dawn, some lying down
as it turned into dark; as each of us rested—another woke, standing
among the cast-off cartons and automobiles;
we left the factories and stood in the parking lots,
left the subways and stood on sidewalks, in the bright offices,
in the cluttered yards, in the farmed fields,
in the mud of the shanty towns, breaking into
harmonies we’d not known possible, finding the chords as we
found our true place singing in a million
million keys the human hymn of praise for every
something else there is and ever was and will be
the song growing louder and rising.
(Listen, I too believed it was a dream.)
In yesterday’s post, I discussed my dislike for Lenten and Easter hymns, in general. My opinion was formed through years of being a church musician and choir director. That doesn’t mean that I hate Eastertide. Quite the contrary. I have wonderful childhood memories of receiving immense, chocolate-filled baskets. And there was always a note attached; I was one of those kids who wrote to Santa and the Easter Bunny. Didn’t want to take any chances. The notes from Mr. Bunny were always signed with a big, black paw print.
Even though it’s only 9:34 p.m., our Easter baskets have already been delivered. I can smell the chocolate from where I’m sitting on the couch. Of course, I’m tempted to grab something, but I will hold strong until tomorrow morning. Then I will allow myself to eat one Cadbury Creme Egg before heading off to church. It’s a little tradition I’ve established over the years.
This afternoon, I practiced the musical pieces I have to play for church tomorrow morning. I was pleasantly surprised that I knew every single hymn. I also went to do laundry at the laundromat, thinking it would not be too busy. (I was wrong.). Every single washer and dryer were in use when I arrived. I had to wait a couple minutes to get my loads going.
Overall, it has been a blessedly quiet Easter Eve. And for that, I say, “Amen.”
Saint Marty wrote a poem at the laundromat this afternoon . . .
Holy Saturday
by: Martin Achatz
I know
I will make mashed potatoes
with a pound of butter
a full carton of heavy whipping cream
plenty of salt
I know
I will also make Stove Top
a lot of it, because it’s my son’s favorite
I know
my son expects a basket
in the morning, full of Cadbury and Reeses
sweet resurrection
I know
people will gather in church tonight
candles and incense and dark
so dark mothers could lose kids in it
I know
it is spring in Austria
my Austrian friend told me
mountains and fields shouting
Hallelujah!
I know
my Christmas tree is still
blazing in my living room
like Easter morning
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