What I've been doing the last few days

“Not all are called to be artists in the specific sense of the term. Yet, as Genesis has it, all men and women are entrusted with the task of crafting their own life: in a certain sense, they are to make of it a work of art, a masterpiece.” John Paul II, “A Letter to Artists”

Holy Thursday was beautiful, as always. I got there early, and got to sit and rest for a bit before we began. “So....?” one of the musicians said to me as she arrived, alluding to my daughter's delicate condition. “Not yet,” I said, smiling. One of the guitar players came in limping. I felt badly, because the day before my amplifier had fallen on his foot, as we tried to ascertain why it was squealing.

We were told after the last strains of the music faded away that the night had moved everyone to tears. After Mass, we went over to my daughter's new place. My wife and my sister in law put the crib together. Me? Exhausted by the evening, I fell asleep on the couch – which had been our old couch in the basement. At two in the morning, we went back to the church for an hour of meditation and veneration.

Good Friday was a very busy day for us. My wife, in a fog of fatigue, cooked bacon. As nonchalant as I could, I picked it off. “Oops,” she said, when she remembered what day it was. Bacon refrigerates just fine, by the way. We went to the sombre Good Friday service, and then we had one last dress rehearsal of the play. We had been told to bring sandals. Rummaging through the basement in the morning I had found mine, in a bin where the summer shoes all had been put. Some folks were not so lucky, and they had to go upstairs for the rehearsal barefoot on the cold marble floor.

I was a Roman centurion. The centurion costumes were rented. My wife, along with a couple of others from the RCIA team, had been busy sewing 'civilian' costumes all week, but an enterprising fellow in the RCIA group had rented the the centurion outfits, since they were a little more ornate. In addition to being told to wear sandals, the centurions had been instructed to wear black T-shirts and shorts. After changing, I took a look in the mirror in the adjacent men's bathroom. I decided I did not look too undignified – not quite Russell Crowe's Maximus, perhaps, but not Marvin the Martian either. :-)

During the play it was my job to whip Jesus, played by our priest. I've done it before, and he always tells me to be rough and tough with him. He had no idea! During the play, as he was processing up towards our 'calvary', I was whipping him in earnest when I tripped over the cross, sending him tumbling, cross and all to the floor. Now – fortunately for the play – this is actually supposed to happen at some point on the via dolorosa. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't the planned action that was supposed to happen ten paces later.

I gulped, wondering what I had done, but he was alright and got to his feet, and nobody other than he or I was the wiser. I have a big bruise from this, and he likely has a bigger one. I don't like playing the Roman guards, to tell you the truth. And it isn't just that I don't like whipping a person playing Jesus. It is also that I don't like whipping and cajoling our pastor. He is a good man and I consider him my friend. Though some of my friends joke about me being lucky that I can push our pastor around, I know that he finds the role uncomfortable physically and mentally, and it is no small suffering for me to inflict cruelty on people, even when “the play's the thing.”

After the play, the cast stood in the lobby as the congregation came to pay their respects to the actors. I'm not a gregarious person by nature, but at times like these, I force down my shyness and make myself friendly and warm, to the extent I have it in me to do.

Saturday was the vigil. My daughter and her guy came – motivated partly because they didn't want to be out of contact with my wife for as many hours as the vigil is. But I think my daughter is beginning to feel the siren call back to the faith of her childhood. She will need it someday. The young do not always see it, but as you get older, life often makes a bit more sense through the prism of religious faith – particularly when nature takes its course, and babies come into the world, or aunts and grandmothers leave it.

The vigil began in the dark, as always – lit up with candles. Then through the story of creation, the Exodus, the promises of the prophets, we journeyed in the candlelight, until, with the Great Gloria, the church lit up. Then, when the readings were done, we sang the Litany of the Saints, and the new catechumens were baptized and confirmed. I love the ancient rhythms of the vigil – it is my favourite Mass of the year.

We went to Sunday brunch out near my daughter's. My nephew joined us. He told me about all his progress learning the guitar (I've been giving him lessons.) And he explained how he's been starting a reptile breeding business on the side (he's a herpetologist at work, too, but not as a breeder, rather an educator.)

“Having reptiles is actually good for my dating prospects,” he joked. “I can quite safely say to people, 'I have the largest snake in Ottawa – and it takes a professional to handle it!'”

I got to lead the music for the Easter evening Mass. There were only three of us in the folk group, and everything that could go wrong did. The speakers hummed with feedback as I set up the microphones. I broke a string thirty seconds before Mass began. My guitar strap fell off five seconds into the opening hymn.

But stressed as I was, nothing could defeat my joy. Our best singer had come out just by chance. We opened by roaring through “Oh Happy Day” (yes, the Sister Act hymn.) And we went out on an exuberant “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” So I broke a string – God may have a sense of humour, but just as surely, it all worked out. :-)