For the second year in a row now, all my Easter preparations are done early. Last year, there were no Easter Vigil Mass due to the pandemic. This year, the Easter Vigil took place at another church where I'm not an organist. So, after working at the library this morning, stopping by Walmart to buy one last batch of Easter candy, I came home and did . . . practically nothing. I took a nap in the middle of the day. Then, I watched the film Harvey with my son, and he loved it. After that, I picked up some pizza for dinner. Went for a four-mile walk with my puppy. Watched A River Runs Through It, this time pretty much by myself. Finally, just before my son went to bed, my whole family played a couple rounds of a card game called Notable Novelists--one of my son's favorites.
After my son went to sleep, the Easter Bunny came knocking on the door, and I helped the big hairy guy with the Easter baskets. Now, after taking another short nap on the couch, I'm typing this blog post.
All of that may not be all that interesting to most of my disciples. However, it was a remarkable day for me. Nothing was normal, and yet it was one of the most normal days I've experienced in a long while. And that was a miracle. A normal, everyday miracle.
One of my favorite moments at the Easter Vigil Mass occurs right at the beginning. All the lights in the sanctuary are turned off. To represent the darkness of the tomb, I suppose. Then, at the back of the church, a fire is kindled. I can see the light from the fire flashing against the walls, licking up to the vaulted ceiling. And then, after some prayers and chanting, the light is passed by candle to every person in the church. One-by-one, candles start flickering in the darkness until, by the end of the process, the entire church is a sea of candles. I watch this all from the choir loft. The light of Easter has arrived.
For me, tonight, the light of Easter was watching an old Jimmy Stewart movie with my son. Eating stuffed crust pepperoni pizza. Strolling along a lake with my dog. Playing cards with my family. Filling pink and blue baskets with chocolate. All those moments were filled with miraculous light.
At my wife's church, on Easter morning, people greet each other by saying, "He is risen!"
Saint Marty can say tonight, "He is risen indeed!"
A poem for this Holy Saturday . . .
Vigil
1 day until Easter
by: Martin Achatz
When my grandmother died, my dad
Sat by her bed all night, recited
Rosaries, listened as her breaths
Became lighter, lighter, the space
In between, longer and longer,
Like waves on the beach of Kesennuma
The day before the tsunami, soft
Swells and troughs breaking on sand.
Hiss. Silence. Hiss. Greater silence.
My dad kept vigil, waited for the dawn,
The last wave, the greatest silence.
The night before my wife gave birth
To our daughter, the hospital room
Was filled with family, friends.
We took turns holding my wife’s hand
When the pain overcame her,
Preparing her body to deliver new life.
Outside, snow tore through darkness
As we kept vigil, waited for sunrise.
This Holy Saturday, I will go to church
After night falls. In the black pews,
I will wait for the priest to light
The first fires of Easter, for the flame
To pass from candle to candle
Until the walls, pillars, ceiling
Of the sanctuary flood with light.
I will go with my daughter,
Keep vigil with her, wait
For the church to bloom
With bells and incense and hymns,
Psalms of deserts and seas,
Hunger and manna.
I will sing with her, loud,
Joyful songs, calling all the children
Out to the playground, under the stars,
To slide, to clap, to dance, to shout,
To swing so high their feet
Kick the last breath of night
To the first cry of the morning.
When my grandmother died, my dad
Sat by her bed all night, recited
Rosaries, listened as her breaths
Became lighter, lighter, the space
In between, longer and longer,
Like waves on the beach of Kesennuma
The day before the tsunami, soft
Swells and troughs breaking on sand.
Hiss. Silence. Hiss. Greater silence.
My dad kept vigil, waited for the dawn,
The last wave, the greatest silence.
The night before my wife gave birth
To our daughter, the hospital room
Was filled with family, friends.
We took turns holding my wife’s hand
When the pain overcame her,
Preparing her body to deliver new life.
Outside, snow tore through darkness
As we kept vigil, waited for sunrise.
This Holy Saturday, I will go to church
After night falls. In the black pews,
I will wait for the priest to light
The first fires of Easter, for the flame
To pass from candle to candle
Until the walls, pillars, ceiling
Of the sanctuary flood with light.
I will go with my daughter,
Keep vigil with her, wait
For the church to bloom
With bells and incense and hymns,
Psalms of deserts and seas,
Hunger and manna.
I will sing with her, loud,
Joyful songs, calling all the children
Out to the playground, under the stars,
To slide, to clap, to dance, to shout,
To swing so high their feet
Kick the last breath of night
To the first cry of the morning.
