Tag: coronavirus

with the women at the tomb

It’s Holy Week, the last week of Lent— and the third week of Oregon’s social distancing mandate because of the coronavirus pandemic— and the third week without Mass. It’s so strange to think of not going to Mass during Holy Week. I was doing okay with it. I was like, yes Lord, tell me what you want me to learn from this Eucharistic fast. And, as usual, my stamina began to give way. Fortitude is not my forte. I went to Confession (thank God we still have that) and afterwards found myself weeping like a Magdalene at the doors of the Church (“Where have you put my Lord?”), knowing Father was saying Mass just twenty yards away—our Lord was so close, but I couldn’t touch Him or see Him, let alone partake of His Body and Blood.  My eldest daughter, who was with me at the time, looked perplexed as I sobbed all the way home.

I texted a friend later and she had some very wise words that gave me peace and strength. She said my tears were a gift from our Blessed Mother on the eve of Palm Sunday, a gift to know a part of her sorrows as we begin Holy Week. Her beautiful words reminded me of something I had recently been pondering.

Just a week into the Oregon quarantine, my birthday present from my husband arrived one month late from the Ukraine. The timing couldn’t have been more providential. It was an icon of the resurrected Lord in the garden with three women looking on from a short distance away. It’s an icon I’ve been wanting for a while; about a year ago, while praying through the Consecration to Jesus through Mary, I was moved by the story of Mary Magdalene in the Gospel of John when, while weeping at the empty tomb, she recognizes Jesus’ voice calling her by name. Though I’ve heard and read that story many times, it struck me deeply as I imagined myself at the empty tomb, as I imagined Jesus calling me by name. Ever since then, my devotion to Mary Magdalene has grown as I’ve realized more ways I feel connected to her. This icon was the closest I could come to that beloved story in the Gospel.

But the icon offered so much more than what I had initially seen in it. As soon as I unwrapped it, my 13-year-old artist-daughter noted how fitting an icon it was for this strange time we’re in without Mass: we, like the women in the garden, gaze at our risen Lord, but are unable to get much nearer.

Prompted by her introspection, I meditated on the icon for a time, alone. I realized the three women were in the same shape that, in other icons, Christ’s hand takes as he makes the sign of the Trinity. The two standing women are turning towards one another with their hands gesturing towards the risen Christ. But the third woman, who I assume is Mary Magdalene by her posture, is kneeling and reaching towards Jesus. Everyone is dressed in white with accents of red, symbols of purity and the Spirit. Their white clothing is almost transparent, signifying the temporality of this world, but their faces and hands are solid, signifying the immortality of the soul. The icon is split unevenly down the middle: the side that Christ stands on has more depth, and seems to be higher ground, while the side the women are on is less defined and more flat. Christ’s hand reaches out towards them, palm-up. He is not going towards them, but greets and beckons generously; he does not look as though he’s there to dry their eyes, but stands matter-of-factly, as though His risen body is His testament, the proof of His love for them.

I’m not sure where I’m going to hang this icon; for now it is beside my bed so it is the first and last image I see in the day (besides my husband’s handsome face, of course). It has been a true gift for my heart during this time away from Our Lord’s table, and a reminder not to squander it (which I’ve definitely done at times). Ideally, love and desire should increase, a gratitude for the unique mystery of the Eucharist should strengthen, and awareness of my brothers and sisters throughout the world who live without the Sacraments readily available should take root in my heart where an on-going prayer for them can manifest.

What will Easter be like without a Eucharistic feast? I don’t know; probably sad to a degree, maybe anti-climactic. It’s good to feel that loss, to hate going without. But it will be a good spiritual exercise to remember our Blessed Mother and the women at the tomb who, though they could not touch Him as they could before, were overjoyed that He was truly risen.

memento mori

For years, I was disturbed by my brother’s obsession with skulls. He put skull stickers on his drums, incorporated skulls into his tattoos and clothing, even decorated with skulls. From my perspective at the time, he was flirting with a dark, dangerous part of life; maybe even glorifying evil.

A few years ago, I jumped on the Lenten bandwagon of the memento mori movement, which was an ancient monastic practice reframed and repopularized by Theresa Aletheia Noble, FSP. Memento mori, Latin for “remember your death”, is an ancient practice of prayer — the reality of death ever before us illuminates our everyday actions in the context of eternity. One day we shall die—that is an inevitability. What do we do with this time? With our daily actions? The thought is sobering. But, rightly presented and understood, it is surprisingly not morbid.

It suddenly occurred to me that my brother might not be crazy. In fact, considering all he’s been through in his life, it made a whole lot of sense. My brother was a drug addict for years and I know came very close to death more than once; he also lost friends along the way to drugs. He now lives as though his life is a miraculous gift—because it is. I wonder if skulls are a reminder to him of his own mortality, something he’s probably been more aware of than I have of my own.

I bought a ceramic skull for our altar. During Lent, it sits below our icons. It weirded my kids out the first year, which made me even more glad it was there. Death is unsettling. Having been created in the image of God, death was not what we were intended to endure. But now, because of Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross, we look forward to the Resurrection: death is a passage.

For school, my daughter and I have been reading aloud together Everyman, a short play from the 16th century written by an unknown cleric about a man journeying towards death. He is abandoned first by Fellowship and Kinsmen, and gradually by everyone and everything he depended upon in life; towards the end he is abandoned even by Beauty and Wits. The man begs to be accompanied, but is repeatedly reminded he will ultimately meet death alone—save for Angel, who meets him with this greeting: “Come excellent elect spouse to Jesu: Hereabove thou shalt go/…/Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere,/ Unto the which all ye shall come / That liveth well before the day of doom.”

Sometimes in our society today with so many distractions it’s hard to practice memento mori. But this year, with the threat of the coronavirus touching every part of life, it’s very real. People respond to this fear in different ways (some people hoard toilet paper, for example). In Oregon right now, we’re in a mandated lockdown; we’re only allowed to leave our homes for necessary outings. The fear of death has trickled into every corner of life. Yet, death is always here with us, even in times without pandemics. Maybe a hidden blessing in times like this is that we see for ourselves that the chasm that separates us from death is paper-thin. Life is a beautiful gift: yes, fight to live, protect life, celebrate and nurture it. But death, though ugly and terrible, need not be feared; it’s already been defeated. Through death, our life is illuminated. To see it before us is a more true way of living.