Father had gone to Paris to be best man at the wedding of one of his friends from the old days in New Zealand. Capt. John Chrystal had made himself a career in the British army and was an officer in the hussars. Later on he became Governor of a prison: but he was not as dreary as that might imply. After the wedding, the Captain and his wife went off on their honeymoon, and the mother of the new Mrs. Chrystal came down to St., Antonin with Father.
Mrs. Stratton was an impressive kind of a person. She was a musician, and a singer, but I forgot whether she had been on the stage: in any case, she was not a very theatrical character, rather the opposite, although she had a certain amount of dash about her.
She was not what you would call elderly, by any means, and besides she was a woman of great vitality and strength of character, with rich intelligence and talent, and strong and precise ideas about things. Her convictions commanded respect, as did her many talents, and above all her overwhelming personal dignity. You felt that she ought to have been called Lady Stratton, or the Countess of something.
At first I was secretly resentful of the great influence she at once began to exercise over our lives, and thought she was bossing our affairs too much, but even I was able to realize that her views and advice and guidance were very valuable things. But so strong was her influence that I think it was due to her more than to anyone else that we gave up the idea of living permanently in St. Antonin.
The house was almost finished and ready for occupation, and it was a beautiful little house too, simple and solid. It looked good to live in, with that one big room with the medieval window and a huge medieval fireplace. Father had even managed to procure a winding stone stair and it was by that that you went up to the bedroom. The garden around the house, where Father had done much work, would have been fine.
On the other hand, Father was travelling too much for the house to be really useful. In the winter of 1927 he was some months at Marseilles and the rest of the time at Cette, another Mediterranean port. Soon he would have to go to England, for by this time he was ready for another exhibition. All this time I was at the Lycee, becoming more and more hard-boiled in my precocity, and getting accustomed to the idea of growing up as a Frenchman.
Then Father went to London for the exhibition.
It was the spring of 1928. The school year would soon be over. I was not thinking much about the future. All I knew was that Father would be back from England in a few days.
It was a bright, sunny morning in May when he arrived at the Lycee, and the first thing he told me was to get my things packed: we were going to England.
I looked around me like a man that has had chains struck from his hands. How the light sang on the brick walls of the prison whose gates had just burst open before me, sprung by some invisible and beneficent power: my escape from the Lycee was, I believe, providential.
Merton is set free from his chains. The doors of his prison are flung open, and the light shines down upon him. If you don't recognize the parallels in this passage to Acts 16: 25-26, where Saint Paul and Silas are set free from their prison and chains by an earthquake, then you probably weren't paying attention in Sunday school or didn't attend Sunday school at all.
It's an apt passage for tonight. It is Holy Saturday. In a usual year, at this time of the night (it is about 10:30 p.m. right now), I would be in a choir loft, playing the pipe organ and singing the Easter Vigil Mass at my church. It's one of my favorite Masses of the entire Church calendar, full of all the bells and whistles of Catholic pageantry. Candles and Gregorian chant, bells and "glorias," and, of course, clouds of incense. And, just for fun, there are also baptisms and confirmations. It's quite the show.
This year, however, my church is dark and empty. No candles flickering in the pews. No priest in Easter white intoning, "Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!" Nope. This Holy Saturday is more tomb than resurrection.
Of course, Christians all over the world are celebrating Easter in some way tomorrow. Pope Francis has been holding solemn services all week in a vacant Saint Peter's Square. Tonight, he celebrated the Easter Vigil in a nearly empty Saint Peter's Basilica. For some reason, the images of Pope Francis sitting alone in a dark, rainy night have stuck with me. A symbol of how isolating and terrifying this pandemic is.
Of course, Easter will come tomorrow. There are five baskets, filled with chocolate, sitting on my kitchen table right now. This morning, as I was heading to church to practice some music for tomorrow (I am playing for a virtual Easter Sunday service), I passed the Easter Bunny, standing at an intersection of the highway, waving at cars. I honked and waved back. Nothing is going to stop Easter.
There is power in the message of Easter for everyone (Christian, atheist, agnostic, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever) this year: we will rise from the ashes of this disaster. There will be light and hope in the world again. Resurrection is on its way.
Covid-19 is teaching the world some hard lessons. It's sort of knocked us all on our complacent asses. We have taken the gifts of this world for granted for a very long time. Now, we can't. When we're done sheltering in place. When we can go grocery shopping without fearing for our lives. When coming home from work isn't like returning home from war. When all this is said and done, I hope the Easter we experience is one of renewed appreciation for the graces of living in this spinning universe. That we see and treat every human being for what they really are: reflections of the Higher Power (Yahweh/God/Buddha/Jesus Christ/Allah) in our lives.
That will truly be an Easter to rejoice.
Saint Marty wishes you all a joyous Easter Vigil! He is rising . . .
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