Picture this idyllic scene.
The navy blue townhouse, painted twice to get just the right shade, is centered by a bright yellow front door. The bistro set on the tiny porch is yellow, as is the small patch of daffodils that popped this week. A wreath of tulips (fake of course) graces the storm door.
I should have taken a picture yesterday when the sun was out. It really is pretty.
Now, however, at mid morning it’s dark as night and the snow is falling, although it’s warm enough that the roads are still wet. The forecast promises that won’t last, we are in a winter weather warning and right here, we could get 10 inches with strong winds.
I was able to go to Palm Sunday Mass last week, the first since August.
Although I opted for the zero entry hall instead of the church, the 2-1/2 hours in a banquet chair had my hips screaming for several days.
I went early to get a close parking spot and for the recitation of the Rosary, which begins 30 minutes before Mass.
It was fantastic to be there, and I had big plans to do all of the biggies starting Holy Thursday — the Lord’s Supper and Adoration, and Stations of the Cross and the Passion on Good Friday.
Obviously, those plans most likely will be scrapped, as walkers are wobbly enough on dry surfaces, especially with me behind the wheel.
Holy Thursday has always been my favorite Mass of the year. I like to think of it as the first great dinner party.
There was great food, an interesting guest list, good conversation and, of course, drama.
My religious education teachers, sadly most of whom are in heaven, will be rolling their eyes.
“That mouthy redhead doesn’t remember one thing we taught her. Holy Thursday was not a dinner party - it was bread and wine being changed to the Body and Blood of Christ, it was the birth of the Eucharist and of the priesthood.”
Okay.
But the most memorable Mass of my life was a Holy Thursday at St. Anthony’s Church in Casper, when the kids were still in school there.
The Offertory Procession was all women, young and old, grandmas and singles, who each carried a food item to the altar.
There were loaves of bread, bunches of grapes, dishes of olives, jugs of wine.
The song was “We Come to the Table.”
It was intensely moving and I have not forgotten it.
Each year since, I have tried to get that feeling back, looking around our very small parish and finding the good in those gathered.
We have a phenomenal organist and soloist in Paula Flynn.
During the Adoration that follows Mass on Holy Thursday, she often sings a verse or two of “Tantum Ergo,” in Latin. I live for that moment.
As a straight-A Latin student at St. Laurence School, I love to show off my perfect pronunciation, although I am too loud and off-key.
During my extended period of being homebound, I have come to rely on homilies from a big, jovial priest in Michigan, @joeinblack on X.
He loves the Tigers and Michigan State and talks about them often.
His homilies are almost always less than 15 minutes but they are easy to understand and I find myself thinking about them during the week.
Homilies on my phone are nice, but they don’t take the place of being there in person.
The Christian community is entering its saddest three days of the year from Good Friday to Easter morning, when the rock was rolled away and the tomb was empty.
Jesus died so that we might live.
I love the phrase, “Sunday’s coming,” which refers to Easter. No matter how bad things get, no matter how much snow flattens the daffodils, Sunday is coming, hopefully with sun and definitely with the promise of everlasting life for those who believe.
My sister-in-law finds the best greeting cards there have ever been.
Several years ago, she sent the all-time greatest.
Plain white card stock.
Typewriter font at the top.
B.R.B.
-Jesus
For those not familiar with texting shorthand or the Urban Dictionary, it means “Be Right Back.”
Sunday’s coming. Aren’t we lucky?
Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at: SallyAnnShurmur@gmail.com
