April 4, 2026: “Hymn,” Easter Vigil, “Holy Saturday”

In past years, I would be in church right now, sitting on an organ bench.  If you’ve never attended a Mass before, and you want to get the full Catholic experience, the Easter Vigil is for you.  It’s more Catholic than the Crusades and Spanish Inquisition.  (Yes, I’m probably going to hell for that little joke.)

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

April 4: Easter Sunday, Chocolate for Breakfast, "Easter Bread"

Here we are.  Easter Sunday.  Actually, Easter Sunday night.  

My twelve-year-old son woke us up early this morning, sneaking into our bedroom and whispering, "Happy Easter!"  I love the fact that he still gets excited about Easter baskets and is sort of on the fence when it comes to the Easter Bunny.  He doesn't take any chances.

So, we had chocolate for breakfast.  Of course.  What else would you eat on Easter morning?  Then an Easter egg hunt.

After that, we put on our Easter bonnets and went to my wife's church.  The whole family.  I think that it was the first time we have all been together at a worship service since the pandemic began.  Christmas time, we were under quarantine.  So, it was kind of a miraculous moment, sitting in a pew with my wife and kids.  (Disclaimer:  we attended the service because the church practices social distancing and requires facemasks and does contact tracing.  I am still very aware that we are in the MIDDLE of a pandemic, not at the tail end or out of a pandemic.)

Lunch at my family's house.  Ham and cheese and Easter eggs and homemade Easter bread (the kind my mother used to make).  And a long visit with my sisters.  We haven't really been together since Thanksgiving, when I helped them put up their Christmas decorations.  My sister, Rose, who has Down syndrome, is very confused all the time now.  She suffers petit mal seizures every morning.  There's no way to control them, and they have really affected her physically and mentally.  I'm not really sure if she even knew who I was.

She smiles all the time.  Is happy all the time.  That was good to see.  Another Easter miracle.

I ended the evening watching O Brother, Where Out There?  Haven't seen that movie in years.  I had forgotten how wonderful it was.  The Coen brothers, George Clooney, and Homer.  Three more Easter miracles.

Now, I'm thinking about the chaos of the coming week.  Trying to prepare for it in my head.  Lots of work ahead in the next five days.

The tomb is open and empty.  Light has returned.  There's ham and Easter bread in the fridge.

And Saint Marty got to hug his sister Rose today.

An Easter poem . . . 

Easter Bread

Easter Sunday

by:  Martin Achatz

My mother made it on Holy Saturday
In her bowl as green as Easter grass.
She'd mix water, salt, sugar, flour,
Shortening and yeast, fold it
With her hands, over and over,
Until dough took shape, white
As my winter skin. Then she kneaded,
Pushed and pounded, picked it up,
Slammed it down on the kitchen table,
Made the room shake with violence,
Sounds like sledges and spikes,
Holy, Easter sounds. After she was done,
My mother left the bowl on the counter,
Draped with a towel. She waited
For the dough to leaven, the yeast
To work like prayer, make the dough
Rise higher and higher, swell, stretch
Like a pregnant womb. My mother
Returned, kneaded, punched
It into submission, broke
Its will, began the process anew.
As night fell, the dough rose and rose.
Some time after I went to bed,
My mother sliced loaves, and baked.
On Easter morning, I woke

To the aroma of fresh bread.
Resurrection, sweet and warm
As the wren.