Holy week time

It could be that maybe I didn’t transition well into talking and what not, but there are so many things that need to be done–and all of them good and worthy things, you know?

In the next few days I need to…

• call the vet for the guinea pig (don’t worry, routine things)
• make butter lambs
• keep a valuable prayer life
• do my laundry–my room is a mess
• update my blog
• do the full church-thang this week–hours upon holy hours of sacred prayer
• send Easter-love to my friends
• promo different community events, coordinating food and a million other details for those as well
• attend swim lessons/ stay active through running and stuff
• make and bring food to our Easter parties
• oh, you know, go to work and stuff. And sleep

And that’s me crossing things like “get Easter clothes” and “visit late with friends” off of the list.

It’s a whirlwind. I was driving to work this morning, with oatmeal next to me in a container instead of in my stomach because my time was tight, and I rounded a bend in the highway and I thought to myself about how busy I am and how tired I feel. And last week I was sitting on the floor of a bedroom for hours at a time praying and now I’m…not. (And now I get signed up for emails from the Carmelite Orders, I know, I know).

I thought, as I rounded the bend, “Am I doing the right things? Prioritizing correctly?”
This crazy rush before sacred days, shouldn’t I be peaceful and serene? Probably.

But then I thought about the week. Sunday was Palm Sunday. Dem Catholic-folk start the service at the back of the church or, in my case, outside. I was outside of the Cathedral with select sibs and friends and the good Archbishop. Across the entire world people gathered like we did, outside of the pews, away from the altar. We heard the triumphant story, the one of a donkey and waved palm branches and the sung songs to Jesus. And we sang, too. We sang the songs we save for this day, and we filed, with palms, back to pews. And then we read the other story, the one about the friend who betrayed him and the whips and we all said in unison as our stomachs sank, “Crucify him!”

We started with the party and we ended with the death. It’s kind of strange, isn’t it? Why would we do that? Why wouldn’t we just give Palm Sunday as a day of straight-party with the victor-songs and the adrenaline-rushed parade? I think because it’s all a part of the same package: joy and suffering, the betrayal of a dear friend, the strong support of a stranger-picked-from-a-crowd, the washing of hands, the blood and water…and the palms. Sometimes I think about Jesus and how his promise of abundant life is spot-on, but most of us assume that the “life” He’s mentioning means skipping through daisies. And, don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of daisy-fields, but there is an abundance of all of the other things too: heartbreak and sorrow.

A priest-friend posted this on Facebook today:

An “interactive event.”

So, how do I hope to enter in? Totally. I want to prep with all the prayers: feet washing tomorrow and torn-heart kisses on Friday and the blessed, heavenly Easter Vigil on Saturday (flowers! songs! incense! Jesus, we’ll give you all we’ve got to attempt to celebrate!). I want to prep with the traditions: the Polish butter-lamb molds I’ve filled since I was a little girl. I want to prep with my family and friends: teh beebee Josh who told me about how he’s been getting ready when I came home sleepy-eyed, late last night. I want the awareness in my daily life, my daily exercise, my daily interactions…even when I’m collapsing, tired, into bed.

God be with me, give me wisdom and balance.

Amen.

Happy Holy Week.

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