Dear Corona Diary,
My sourdough bread did NOT turn out as promised.
When I finally decided that it was now-or-never time, I prayed to God that I would be content if it was even just edible. Twenty cups of flour seems like a lot for four loaves. Put enough butter on it, and everyone’s happy.
My children say they will kill me if I play Andrea Bocelli’s Time to Say Goodbye one more time. But, I don’t know, I just can’t seem to stop. I just keep pressing repeat. I always wanted to be an opera singer. If only I could speak Italian.
Madalen heard me turn it on again and offered me her unicorn headphones. They all look at me with pity when the chorus starts and I belt it out. At least I can’t hear them with the unicorn headphones on. Whatever. They should have seen me in my prime.
They also keep asking why I have tape between my eyebrows. Even if I wanted Botox it would be impossible to get an appointment, so this is my DIY version. Who wants lines between their eyebrows at a time like this?
So, Easter was pretty okay. The kids woke up and Scott made Eggs Benedict. They were all on a sugar high by Mass time. Madalen and I wore matching dresses. Scott and the older boys dressed up, too, but the young’uns just wore their sweats and chocolate stained shirts. Not a good sign.
After lunch, Scott and I hid some stuff in the backyard for a little hunt, chips and granola bars and stuff. Because we’re moving in a couple of weeks it was a little sad walking around the yard, knowing how much of a gift it has been. The little hobbit hole that the kids play in, the berries and fruit trees, the neighbour who yells and swears at our dog and kids… memories.
In the afternoon we drove to our church to drop off an Easter card. I secretly hoped we would catch Father and he would give us a socially distanced blessing. No luck.
Holy Saturday was hard for me. Maybe it was because Scott was able to receive Holy Communion on Good Friday without me, or because we watched the Passion of the Christ. Something twitched inside me, and I found myself crying off and on during the day, desperate to receive the Eucharist. I find it hard to believe that we are safe shopping in Walmart, but not safe in small groups, 50 people, spread out in a massive church. It’s somehow worth the risk, essential, to go for tortilla chips and carrots, but it’s neither for the Bread of Life. Couldn’t priests invite different families each weekend or something? In times of hardship people of faith have always drawn strength from the Eucharist.
My inner rebel cries out that we are not Protestants! Churching at home is not enough! All the memes, the “it could be worse” one-liners, do not suffice. I know that others, now and in history, have been without the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for months on end. That’s like saying, “Hey, don’t complain that you haven’t eaten for weeks. There are other people who haven’t eaten for weeks, so stop feeling hungry already.” Is it truly his Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity or not? Anyhow, I was surprised by my sudden desperation. I even considered bribing a priest. I just don’t have any money. It’s not quite so drastic anymore, but I am considering joining the Libertari … liba … Libraria… libertari-somethings.
We got Tommy’s bubble machine working again, and he’s quite ecstatic about that. Bubbles floating everywhere is our little gift to the world. And now they need not fear his “moist” breath germs, because it’s all electronic.
We’re finishing our school year this week. The kids have been graciously doubling up on work and taking less vacation time than others so we can finish our syllabi before moving.
It will feel wonderful to pack up their books and move on to our new home. We’ve been in this house for 12 years. I’m working hard to practise my step-dad’s weird Franciscan philosophy of detachment.
It will be so strange to drive away. Is it wrong to dig up my lilac plant before we leave? Scott still can’t find the Saint Joseph medal he buried in the yard to consecrate our house in his protection. Good one, Scott. Yeesh.
So, here’s my fear: Lent is over, and I’m afraid that the uplifting of my heart and mind will slowly come to an end as well. I’m desperately afraid that I will eventually stop feeling desperate for the Eucharist. I’m afraid I’ll substitute God’s holy, sacred Presence with on-line celebrity homilies, praise music in the kitchen, and Andrea Bocelli.
But here is my hope: I will lift my eyes to the hills, from where my help comes. My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. By his almighty power my foot will not be moved, for he slumbers not. He will keep me, and protect me, sheltering me from evil. From this time forth, and for evermore he will keep me. And I will rejoice and be glad when they say to me, “Let us go to the house of the Lord!”
