The church was still half empty this morning when I knelt to pray. When I arose, I noted a priest sitting in front of me, clipboard in hand. He’d make a few notes, then look at the altar a few seconds, then go back to his notes.
Now, this priest is a nice man, but a less than brilliant homilist who once told me that he often uses Paul Harvey commentaries as his starting point. I was touched to see him spending time in contemplation in the sanctuary, fine-tuning his remarks.
As he worked away, people to my right were going through the sheet with the Mass responses, whispering about what they liked and didn’t like about the changes, which are now more than a year old.
The family of three, a couple and a teenage son, arrived shortly after the priest left the row to don his vestments. That was a change; they usually roll in midway through the procession. Perhaps it was because there was a young lady with them; I wondered if she was a daughter home from college or perhaps a girlfriend.
I hadn’t even planned to be there this morning; I intended to attend the Easter vigil at my old parish. But less than an hour before I’d planned to leave, I returned a call from an acquaintance, and spent the night with the National Symphony Orchestra and listening to him.
My reverie was interrupted when the organ struck up “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today” and I 
cried as I always do when we sing that glorious hymn, for his enormous sacrifice and love for us and the ever so small ways in which we try to show our appreciation: in spending time with a friend. In getting to Mass, once a year or once a day. In getting there on time, or as close to it as we can, alone or with a friend or spouse or with a wailing baby. In doing our best to make our words about him ring as true as we can. In striving to serve as witnesses to all that he did in the way we love God, our neighbors and ourselves.
Alleluia! He is risen! Trumpet the Good News!
