Who is Risen is always Risen


Posted by in May's Magazine

So, where are we at just now? Where are we at with this? There has been a resurrection, allegedly, and I have broken the television – or more precisely, I have broken two televisions, but more on that in a moment.

First, the resurrection bit which, like everything else, is not how you would think. So much hype, when you work in a church, so much eagerness and waiting and all that yearning, because this is Catholicism after all and we are all about the yearning.

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I thought I was ready for it this year but then I ended up in the dark, quite literally. Stuck in the, bible black, sanctuary on Easter night, everything happening at the other end of the church without me. I thought of myself as Buzz Aldrin, but even that wasn’t right, it was the other one I felt like, the one who didn’t get to go to the moon at all and had to sit in his rocket in the dark by himself. And, of course, no one remembers his name because it isn’t Buzz Aldrin.

But at least rocket man had some kind of insight in that darkness and I, well, didn’t really. I never really saw nor felt the earth move. But then he wasn’t expected to sing anything. No one was going to expect him to sing six pages of chant without accompaniment or a candle to read his hymn sheet.

Of course we never really get our big moments of earth moving and flashes of light, and that was the whole thing with the resurrection; everyone who actually saw it was really thick about it and didn’t even notice it at first.

So, back to those tellies, we broke the first one drawing the curtains. Knocked it right over and the screen smashed. So come Easter Monday, facing a rainy day of school holidays, I went to John Lewis to purchase a new one. Came back all pleased with myself, all hunter gatherer and provider, then KNOCKED THAT ONE OVER AND SMASHED IT TOO. And it felt like no greater depth of despair could have been plumbed. I completely fell to pieces with it. I am rubbish. I am a terrible person. I can’t do anything right.

“Have you got any insurance or anything for it?” Said my friend David, who happened to call round in the midst of the chaos.

“That’s the thing” I sniffed. I paid extra for the accidental damage cover.

“Oh I don’t believe it!” He exclaimed with joy. “Nobody ever does that! Well done!”

And there was something so gracious about the whole thing, the ability to see the positive, to congratulate me, and the miracle of new life that was someone actually forking out the extra forty quid for once in the history of humanity.

So my ever-patient husband picked up the pieces quite literally and made that phone call to John Lewis.

“Will you tell them your wife is an idiot and she has just smashed two televisions in a row?” I said.

“No darling. I don’t need to say that. They can infer it for themselves.” He said. But affectionately, with the love of a man who has had to spend an awful lot of time doing this kind of thing.

I remember not long before we were married, I was having a complete meltdown about something, and he tried to reassure me. “You are just going through a great big mincer right now. And one day you will emerge as a beautiful lasagne”. And it occurs to me that, as we approach our tenth wedding anniversary, we have been waiting a long time. I am not sure whether I am still in that mincer or grinding, ever so slowly, towards lasagne, it’s been quite a process. But maybe that’s the point, the process.

Because it occurs to me too that I was looking in the wrong place for the resurrection, in that dark sanctuary, on the quiet side of the moon, or anywhere else where I could make myself alone. I was being thick about it just like everyone always was.

Because who is risen is always risen, rolling up at the table, on the journey. Present every single time someone loves us, and listens, and sees us, each time we are sanctuary to one another. When we congratulate each other for buying the insurance rather than criticising for breaking the telly. When we wait for ten years by the mincer for each other, wondering if the lasagne will ever really emerge, and enjoying the waiting. The waiting in joyful hope (that yearning again) for the day that we will all be glorious lasagne together.

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