Alleluia

       I realised that my last post was still Good Friday and decided, after almost a week of Easter, it's high time to add something new, an Easter post, even though I have nothing very exciting to report.  

       On second thought that isn't true, I do have something exciting, I just remembered.  So exciting, life-changing exciting, I can hardly believe I forgot.  On Easter Sunday I found out that I am a direct descendant of King Saint Louis IX of France, father of eleven, patron of Versailles and Quebec City, 13th-century crusader and sole canonized French monarch.  He is my great-great-great (well, 26 greats anyway) grandfather.  Who was descended from Eleanor of Aquitaine, so her blood runs in my veins as well.  This discovery was almost surreal.  And as it turned out, Saint Louis' birthday was Easter Monday.  I'm so pumped about it!

Saint Louis IX, pray for us!

An Epic Good Friday

              My parents were considering watching The Passion today but decided on a more family-friendly alternative dealing with the Passion, the 1959 version of Ben Hur.  I have always found epics valuable and enjoyable but a slightly hard to take seriously (our family hasn't watched The Ten Commandments for years but still crack jokes about the corny line, "Moses, your hair!").  I find them often overdone and pretentious, and yes, a little corny on occasion. 
            But today I realised that in epic lines any scriptwriter of today would be mortified to publish, there is often a very sincere truth.  The type of truth that I suspect we all  have expressed in a very profound way in our own minds but tend to be too embarrassed to say aloud, even to those whom we know share the same convictions.  We're queer creatures, aren't we? I don't think the human race was any less queer in 1959, but at least they didn't mind saying saying a few corny things for the sake of expressing a profound truth.

Well it's 2:30 on Good Friday, which means I should be getting ready to go to Church, not blogging.  

Wishing all a blessed Triduum and joyous Easter.

Lovely Lent

         I was shocked yesterday to realize Palm Sunday was a week away.  Lent is whizzing by, I can't believe it.

         Lent is very dear to me.  It feels so good to detach from little pleasures, to be reminded of the good of enduring this or passing up that, instead of regretting what material or emotional gratification I might have had but didn't.

         In Lent it's easier to remember that the lack of an earthly pleasure that might have been isn't wasted.  It's easier to have peace about choices I make that might make me miss out on something fun, because I know it's Lent, so that's ok to miss out on something.  Better than ok, actually that's good. 

         So I love Lent for itself.  Don't worry, though, I won't miss it, because I love it even more for what it precedes.

         I love how special, right and well-ordered the festivities of Easter seem after 40 days of penance.  I love singing, "The strife is o'er, the battle done!" when it's so tangibly true. The strife of fasting, the battle with chocolate cravings.  Needless to say, these  are nothing to Jesus' real strife and battle he endured on our behalf, what we're actually singing about.  No, I don't have real strife and I don't fight battles, during Lent or anytime.  I don't know the meaning of suffering.  But in my weakness, it seems like I've endured a little something for Christ during Lent.  That's a beautiful thing.

Sunshine

I love being outside.  But I get cold so easily.  Pretty well from November to March, I limit my outdoor excursions to fast walks which keep me somewhat warm.

But today the sun was shining.  It wasn't exactly warm out, downright chilly when the wind came up, but it was beautiful so I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my history book on World War I and tiptoed through the lasting March mud in the backyard, seating myself to the best possible sun-soaking advantage with least compromise to my ability to read without squinting.  And I read, for oh, a good twenty-five minutes, and it was lovely. 

Then it clouded over and started to hail, and I ran inside to protect my book and my comfort.

My little protege

I waited twelve years for a little sister.  And then I got one, my little darling, the only other sibling born with dark hair like me.

I was the first Big Sibling to hold her.  I potty trained her, and now I'm helping to teach her to read. I used to take her out to the barn with me in the morning and cuddle her as she approached  fascinating, but terrifying animals.  She would help me toss the hay: me carrying two flakes, she one baby-sized fistful.

She plays my little harp on which I first learned to play nine years ago.

I read her stories, do her hair, paint her face, push her on the swing.  My next project will be teaching her to pump.