Good Friday morning in the nursing home.
Finding my mother’s lost glasses and two young carers helping me fix them to the pearl chain I gave her on Mother’s Day.
Thinking how pretty she looks in the white cardigan with diamanté buttons they’ve dressed her in. Luminous, even.
Taking her and my father their Easter eggs, as per four decades of tradition: Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons for her, because she always kept a secret stash in the bread bin when I was a child. Smarties for him, because they’ve been his favourites since forever and it’s one way of saying that some things never change, when there’s so much I wish I could.
Stations Of The Cross, after a quick outfit change because I’d got too hot in the black top I’d been wearing rushing back from the home.
Throwing a coat over a wholly not-on-theme Sprite t-shirt, flustered and apologetic. My friend reminding me that “Jesus doesn’t care what you’re wearing”.
A few minutes into the service, knowing she was right.
Kneeling at each appointed moment is humbling. Journeying alongside strangers around the small, silent church, its statues shrouded in deep purple cloth, we feel it: the beauty and the devastation.
The love and desolation.
Wrapping fingers around worn oak pews, we hold onto hope.
My friend’s kitchen table, mugs of tea, Lidl Easter biscuits and one of the most honest talks we’ve had. Hearts and stories wide open.
A family beach walk at sunset, standing in the surf to take a video on my phone.
“Mum, are those boots waterproof?!” yells out our youngest.
Yes, but, evidently, too short. Cool water floods in.
I pull them off, dip a toe, paddle and then stride. Clear, frothy waves find their end and break over the tops of my super-pale feet. The hems of my jeans are soaked through, wet and sandy-scratchy against my skin.
It feels like freedom.
Heading back to the car with the sun setting behind us, barefoot, still, sandy boots in hand, it comes to me: Stella Maris, an ancient title given to Mary. “Our Lady, Star of the Sea”, guiding those lost at a storm-tossed sea to her son.
Oh!, I remember.
Almost out loud.
Other things that brought beauty, joy and hope this Easter (and please do share yours!)
Cherry blossom snowstorms in our little garden.
These pictures from St Patrick’s, Soho.
It’s not unusual to see scenes of Stations Of The Cross in small towns and remote rural villages, but in the heart of London’s West End?
All the more affecting, somehow.
Getting out into our little garden more as things warm up. I’m not naturally green-fingered, but I did plant some colourful firefly solar lights along the fence and they’re bringing joy whenever I look outside at night (if you’re in the UK, they are these ones).
This reel, from the streets of Florence during Easter Week (it’s the dancing that got me–just wait!—and then, the elderly man. Undone).
Will’s sermon, on the second Sunday of Easter, reflecting on how a Christian’s trust in the resurrection might help them reorientate the way they love and care for those with dementia.
“… to reframe their loss of memory—and the confusion of identity that accompanies it—as temporary. It’s devastating in the here and now, yes. Utterly. But it is not permanent. Your loved one, your friend, your grandparent may not know who you are today. But come the resurrection, they will. They will once more know who you are. And so for now, however hard it may be, you keep caring, you keep visiting. You keep holding their hand. And in so doing, you guard the memories of who they are”.
Charity Singleton-Craig, a few editions of The Wonder Report back, writing of
“the beauty of holding a hand that’s too weak to hold us back”.
I keep coming back to her words, in Beauty Will Save Us.
My (way more artistic) sister’s Easter wreath, at her home in the Italian lakes.
This new release that’s been on repeat. Pure sunshine, joy, hope, life and love.
Lo canterò per te, stasera, domani e per sempre. E finché non vedrò la luce dei tuoi occhi tornare nei tuoi occhi
I’ll sing it for you, this evening, tomorrow and forever. And until I see the light of your eyes come back into your eyes
—I Love You Baby, Jovanotti
Sometimes, a song can be a prayer.
Jenni what a beautifully written and moving piece. A slice of life which is so real and heartfelt that the reader is right there with you. 🥰 xx
Oh gosh! This is just so beautiful and rich with specificity. I sense both the longing and the relief of feeling heard and seen. ❤️❤️