He rose again.
How awful is it that I still struggle with the new translation of the mass? It’s been four years, but the Nicene creed gets me every single time vere.
But it is Saturday, so I have one entire day before I hastily grab the laminated guide in the pew and kick myself for forgetting, yet again, not to say the red words “bow your head” and the fact that God seeks to enter under my roof, not to be received in a more cannibalistic sense (which I always assumed, given the Eucharist.) But then, are they one and the same? Is the roof we now mention the body, meant to be the roof of the house?
This third day is not Easter, but rather the third day of snow. It is still quite pretty, sparkling in the harsh sun. The brown and yellow are minimal. Still we sit inside; our bodies are tired of the cold.
As I ruminate on how much I miss the rote, I pray with e. We recite the Rosary (you see, I really should have been reflecting on the mysteries instead of the mass) and suddenly I see that our Rosary is unraveling!
I put it away before the beads fall, saving e from an uncomfortable poop down the road, but alas we’ve only said four decades.
And that, good friends, is the ramble for the day.