For my Mother, on Easter Sunday, so she would not have to go alone, I attended mass for the first time in close to three years. The earth didn’t open up and swallow me whole, lightening didn’t strike me, and I was not reduced to a pillar of salt. The atmosphere, achingly familiar and heartbreakingly foreign, was welcoming.
The homily was about hope and allowing grace into our lives. I wanted so much to debate him – but that’s frowned upon during mass (especially by mothers). As he spoke I felt my arms crossing in front of my chest and I had to deliberately put them back down.
My daughter asked me how I knew all the songs. I learned them over 38 years of Sundays. They are a part of me…and I miss the music.