Holidays make for interesting conversations around our house. Trying to explain the importance of July 4th became so challenging that I simply started referring to it as, “America’s Birthday”.
Lent was also a complex discussion, but nowhere near as tough as the triduum (the three holy days before Easter). Throw in a Resurrection and you’ll have one confused seven year old.
I thought I did my best. Before we left for Holy Thursday Mass, I told my son that he would see the priest wash the feet of some chosen parishioners. I think this is one of the most beautiful and solemn ceremonies we have. It is a touching thing to be reminded that Jesus did this for his disciples.
My son, however? Not so solemn. Because when he smelled incense and saw smoke rising near the altar he turned to me and asked, “Mom? Is the priest making people’s feet stinky?”
Then at lunch yesterday I was sure he had grasped the meaning of Easter when he enthusiastically announced, “I can’t believe Jesus is risen!” Then he took a French fry and drew a picture of the Crucifixion in his ketchup.
Maybe all of this is my fault. I couldn’t help but think so when I was downloading pictures last night. We took the kids to the park on Saturday for an Easter egg hunt where kids were dressed in their spring finest. My son, however, was wearing a Napoleon Dynamite shirt…with cinnamon roll swiped on it. Clearly, he was not happy about this. Or, he had to poop.
And, despite the fact that I have roughly 80 wicker, one cloth and at least three plastic Easter baskets in my basement, my son was using a plastic bag. Note to self: Plastic bags are not good for egg hunts which have 6000 eggs disappear in 20 seconds. By the time you get the bag open, the eggs are gone and then you have a very sad, seven year old who only got one egg.