Eldest, Me, Youngest, Pete, Daughter.
The Easter Sunday service droned on and on, as services tend to do when you're a kid, and as Easter services in particular do. It's crowded with visitors and the annual (or semi-annual) pilgrims. You know the ones, right? The ones who come on Easter or just Easter and Christmas because something in their psyches ping them, luring them with the promise of all-is-forgiven-on-this-holy-of-holy-days.
Those of us who attend a bit more frequently look haughtily at them and marvel at their inability to show up on time just one time a year.
And then we shake ourselves and say, "Duuuuuude! You're in church. Behave yourself!"
Soon enough, it is time for the prayers for the people. And after we pray for the church hierarchy and the politicians and the foreign entities and those who mean us harm and those whom we mean harm, we pray for the ones parishioners write out and hand over to the ushers.
You would laugh aloud, too, wouldn't you? If the prayers for the people included those departed, such as
You would laugh. And your 13-year-old son would be horrified and appalled at your lack of decorum, particularly as tears streamed down your cheeks from doing your absolute
Happy Easter. Praise be to God. Thank you for sending us Jesus. And Grandpa Stinky.
[Photo courtesy of CatholicBishops.ie.]