Easter Week started out beautifully.
I arrived for Mass super early and had just taken the pink walker from the back seat when I met Deacon Kevin on the sidewalk.
I had planned to sit in the zero entry hall again, because I still hadn’t figured out exactly where the new “ramp” was.
Kevin asked if I wanted to go in the church and he walked me just over to the back door, which was steps from where I was.
The “ramp” is actually new carpet and a handrail and you would never know that it used to be elevated at all. It’s like a miracle.
Kevin escorted me to the front pew, stowed my walker next to dear Rose’s, who was also in the front pew, and said he would bring us Communion so we didn’t have to move.
I was beyond thrilled to be in church again.
The afternoon included dinner with all six of my people. The highlights were both provided by the 8-year-old.
Perhaps you wouldn’t understand if you didn’t know my family, but if there is a sport televised, the TV will always be on that channel.
Golf was the featured viewing on Sunday. As Justin Thomas sank his long putt on 18 to win the PGA tournament, Addie looked over from the dinner table and asked, “how is that hard?”
A while later, the TV had been switched to a UFL game and she proclaimed, “football makes no sense.”
Not sleeping has almost no advantages, except the immediacy of knowing breaking news.
And so it was at 2:20 a.m., on Monday that I learned that Pope Francis had died.
I love that he went out on his terms, finishing up Easter weekend with a ride in the Popemobile as his last public act.
As the leader of my beloved church, I mourn his passing. I was not particularly pleased with some of the things he said, nor the idea that at times he seemed to be in favor of “modernizing” the church.
We have enough modern in the world. In my opinion, the church doesn’t need major reform.
Later that day, we learned that Owen’s next door neighbor, a lovely, sweet woman, had died after a shockingly short diagnosis of lung cancer.
She was a peach, calling to check on me, writing greeting cards just because.
I will miss her a lot and already do.
Peggy Jane the Mom is in the hospital again, for the second time in 10 days.
Her spirits are good, my sister reports, but her breathing is the problem.
At 93-1/2, we are worried.
She told me Easter Sunday that she doesn’t know why she is here and she feels useless. I told her that we all still need her, dispensing advice from her chair.
This week marked the first anniversary of the death of my buddy of 50 years. A year without phone calls, texts, analyzing Wyoming football, calling my mom on her birthday.
He has left a hole in the hearts of everyone who knew and loved him.
But just as Easter Week is nearing completion, it’s 50-day season of rejoicing until Pentecost remains.
We will watch with fascination as the College of Cardinals seals itself inside the Sistine Chapel to pick a new Pope without cell phones or cameras.
Outside, the media will be tripping over itself with cell phones and cameras, trying to get a scoop and figure out an ancient tradition that forbids figuring out.
There is no handicapping this race. Until the smoke is white, we all wait together.
And there is something refreshingly hopeful about that.
Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at: SallyAnnShurmur@gmail.com
