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

March 25: Lunch with a Friend

Soon, I will be having lunch with a good friend.

I have written about this gentleman before.  When he phones me, he always begins the conversation by saying, "Hello, son, this is dad."  We've known each other for close to ten years.  What started off as a friendly acquaintance has become something deeper and more meaningful.  I send him pictures of my kids at Christmas, and he pesters me about writing my memoir.  (You may remember that I promised to deliver the first four chapters to him at our next encounter.  This lunch doesn't count.)

He, himself, is a published author.  He writes books of humorous essays, and they're quite popular around these parts of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  He's a retired professor from the university and seems to spend his golden years making people happy.  He's everything I want to be when I grow up.

My friend will make my Lachrymose Monday a little less lachrymose.

Now, if Saint Marty can have lunch with his friend on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Saint Marty will have a great week.

I want to be just like him...

March 25: Lachrymose Monday, Unsettled, "Rye" Dip

I've always thought that the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of Holy Week get short shrift.  They have no special name to identify them.  Sunday is Palm Sunday.  Thursday is Maunday Thursday or Holy Thursday.  Friday is Good Friday.  Saturday is Holy Saturday or, in the Catholic Church, Easter Vigil.  Then, of course, comes Easter Sunday.

I've decided to give names to Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  We'll see if they catch on.  Today is Monday.  I've been feeling a little unsettled since I woke up.  I don't know why.  I have a lot going on.  Work and teaching and a Faith Formation session with my daughter this evening.  I'm supposed to meet a friend for lunch at noon.  In between all that, I have Easter plans to finalize with members of the praise team, and I have to correct midterm exams.  Plus, Holy Week always gets me worked me up emotionally.  It's the Gospel readings about Christ's Passion and focus on pain and suffering, I think.  Anyway, these seven days leave me a little worn out.

Which brings me to the name I've come up with for the Monday of Holy Week.  Henceforth, this day shall be known as Lachrymose Monday.  So let it be done.

"Lachrymose" is defined as "crying, sad, tearful, weepy, pensive, gloomy."  It pretty much describes my mood at the moment.  I would think it describes Christ's mood on Monday of the last week of His life, as well.  I mean, He knew what was coming.  I'd have been a little glum if I were Him.

My Rye dip question for this inaugural Lachrymose Monday is obvious:

Will the snow stop falling and weather warm up soon?  (OK, maybe it's not an obvious question, but I'm tired of all this snow.)

The answer from the Gospel according to J. D. Salinger is:

"Go home, Mac, like a good guy.  Go home and hit the sack."

That's not very encouraging.  I need to go home and sleep until the thaw arrives.  That's what I've been doing for the last four months.


Saint Marty wishes all his disciples a Happy Lachrymose Monday.