I wish my readership, be it meagre or abundant, a wonderful Easter. I have been trying to eradicate my waist of an inch or two, and today's chocolate consumption has helped not in the slightest.
Given my younger son is likely to be doing his Sacraments of Initiation this year, I thought it prudent to take him to the Easter Mass. We spent the past few days at my mother-in-law's house, and last night I accompanied my sister-in-law and Master 10 to the local church, a sandstone construction awash with character, and a special place to me - it's where I got married. There is a sad association for me: it's the same church where we bade farewell to my lovely father-in-law some years ago, and last night I actually had a tear in my eye remembering.
Look, I'm an agnostic. I know that. If you know me well, you know that too. So what the hell (ahem!) am I doing taking my son to a church service, and why am I having him undergo Catholic sacraments? Well, anyone who has been raised Catholic probably understands it's difficult to shake off the rituals. The upbringing tends to hang around you like a miasma. It's like the aftermath of cigarette smoke when you've been to a nightclub. Not that you end up with smoky clothing so much these days now that smoking indoors is not on. I wish that rule had been in place back in the days when I was doing my partying. Never mind. I just happen to like going to church at Easter and Christmas, okay? Getting back to my smoke and stink analogy, the priest really gave the thurible a powerful swinging in that church. He looked like an Olympian competing in the hammer throw. The incense gave my sister-in-law a headache, and I felt my sinuses protesting somewhat, too. I hearkened back to the days when my perpetually stoned flatmate would be firing up the bong - the incense reminded me of the overpoweringly vegetal smell of his stash. I was waiting for my son to ask what stank so. He didn't. He behaved in a manner most celestial, and held his lit candle at the appropriate angle to not drip hot wax on his hand. Instead, it dripped onto the pew in front of us, which brought the organ player rushing over in a flap. But yes, I am not a fan of cloying incense. Reminds me of my other flatmate's girlfriend, herself a chronic stoner, who would come over and light up a stick of the most overpowering Essence of Sandalwood-cum-Hash-Oil she could find. I'd come in from work and be hit with a fumes of this, this godawful pong that appeared to have a life of its own. I would stand in the living room and demand to know what the fuck stank.
We all copped a spray with the Holy Water as Father went by, and my son flinched at its coldness. His aunt explained it was symbolic of a new baptism for us all, and my son suggested it would be far preferable for us all to get into a hot tub. I can see the logic in this.
Last night's exercise in taking my son to church was so he could observe the ritual for when he does his sacraments. It wasn't the best service with which to introduce him. I had forgotten how long the Easter Service drags! Aaarrrggghhhhh! I reassured him the next time I take him, the service will only be half the time. Depending on the priest. I still remember the parish priest when I was a youngster who droned and dragged and bored us all to tears, which the exception of the time he gave the Sunday service whilst in the thrall of the most crippling of hangovers. This day he made it through in record time, blessed us with the haste and gestures similar to ousting a pesky fly, and then sprinted off through the sacristy so he could blow chunks outside the apse.
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