Posted by: Ingrid | March 19, 2008

I miss Easter. I think that might be why I find myself cycling again and again through Eliot’s Four Quartets and Ash Wednesday. It’s the closest thing I have to a nameless something that my soul is bereft of, starving for. For the last seven years, Easter has meant more than just a nice Sunday church service, a big dinner, and too much chocolate. It’s had a depth and richness to it, a journey through the sorrows and joys, the heights and depths of the Christian story. A journey of weighty celebration. Even when, like last year, I found myself angry at Easter, hating it even, I was still a part of the ponderous plodding body of Easter-bound Christians making their way through the shadow of lent into the dawn of Easter morning.

I miss that. I miss whatever it is about that experience that so achingly hits my soul and that I am so incapable of articulating.

It doesn’t feel like Easter. It doesn’t feel like it should be Easter. This year Easter feels trivial, unimportant, not big enough to take notice of.

 

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