"Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it."
-Mary Oliver, "Instructions for Living a Life"
"Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang."
- Mary Oliver, "I Worried"
Our three adult children joined us yesterday for church on the couch, Easter edition. While the cats meandered about in quest of warm laps, we immersed ourselves in the sermon, which incorporated Mary Oliver's three-fold instructions for living fully. Rev Mark highlighted how eleven disciples couldn't fathom the resurrection, their anxiety and trepidation compelling them to sequester themselves behind locked doors, while Peter alone embraced the women's extraordinary news. In that era, women were deemed unreliable witnesses, yet our children were visibly stunned that the proclamation "Jesus lives" stirred amazement only in Peter, who hastened to investigate firsthand.
Our 21-year-old, particularly incredulous, expressed disbelief at this revelation. "How did I not know this?" he questioned, leaning forward intently. "When did they finally celebrate?" I explained the gradual nature of acceptance, noting that Thomas required tangible evidence before acknowledging the resurrection's reality.
Throughout the day, I turned William's surprise over repeatedly in my thoughts, like one would handle a smooth worry stone nestled in a pocket. Initially, amusement washed over me—how aging often unveils less palatable truths about the mystical narratives of childhood. Then, recollecting my own recent awakening to the numerous factions actively dismantling democracy from within, my age-derived smugness evaporated instantaneously.
Returning to the Easter message, our pastor chose not to dwell on the disciples' skepticism or the physical confirmation later offered through Christ's presence. Instead, he illuminated Peter's profound astonishment. Fascinatingly, the Greek term describing Peter's emotional state appears just once throughout scripture—here, on this transformative third day.
After brunch Aden and William accompanied me for an early afternoon stroll. Lacking proper walking footwear, we wandered unhurriedly, absorbing the breeze and warm sunshine as they caressed the flourishing trees and emerging perennials. We paused deliberately—inhaling the lilacs' fragrance, admiring the delicate carpet of fallen petals beneath our feet, peering over the creek's edge in search of ducks. Together, we surrendered to wonder.
The day's splendor and precious family moments replenished my spirit, temporarily alleviating my persistent concerns about our nation's trajectory. Yet deep disappointment surfaced in the morning when the communal prayers in the service encompassed ourselves, our community, and our world—but conspicuously omitted our country. Even our devotions, I suspect, have become potentially divisive terrain. My family swiftly hushed my observation, protective of their Easter contemplation and I stayed quiet, vowing to preserve their amazement.
This morning, we collectively grieve Pope Francis's passing—the departure of a virtuous man who strived to embody and transmit Christ's authentic teachings throughout our troubled world. Despite his (undoubtedly stressful) obligation to meet with American officials during his final days, I hope his Easter departure brought serenity. His absence - the absence of a life well-lived - will create a profound void as he seemed to truly understand God's instructions for living.
