Easter 2018

In September, I was making dinner one evening, enjoying a rare moment of quiet since Patrick had taken the three older kids to the 4:30 College Mass in our town. I was left listening to a podcast, chatting with Elijah and browning some ground beef when the phone rang.

It was my Dad calling to tell me he had signed up that day for RCIA.

My dad took us to Mass every Sunday when we were children. He has been there for every one of his children's sacraments, as well as his grandkids, too -- flying across the country at great expense to be present for this milestone in their lives. 

He has supported us in every way I can think of to have a Catholic upbringing. 

This is all despite the fact that he was not Catholic himself.

So when he called me that September evening, I wasn't exactly surprised. He had, in fact, mentioned over the years that he was interested in doing so. Yet even with some advance suspicions, it didn't stop me from literally falling onto the kitchen floor when he told me, simultaneously squealing, laughing and crying in delight.

I ran down the driveway to tell Patrick and the kids when they came home from Mass that night, and burst into the doors at our School Council meeting to share the news with friends of mine who have known my Dad for years.

Still intermittently crying and laughing, but thankfully now suppressing the squealing.

At Nana's house, you get to eat Kraft Dinner for lunch. 

While watching PBS Kids on the massive flatscreen TV. 

So during Holy Week this year, we made the long drive from Ontario to Nova Scotia to be there with my Dad when he entered the Church.

Honestly, I still get chills as I type that.

Our Triduum was lovely; I got to go to the services at the parish I grew up in and sing along with all the familiar songs I heard as a child. Despite them being somewhat liturgically... bereft..., the connection to my childhood memories, especially with going to Mass with my Dad, was poignant.

Holy Saturday was a rush of excitement to get ready for the BIG DAY. Not only would we be there at the Vigil which started at 8pm, well past my kids' bedtime, my parents were hosting a reception afterwards at their house. Much cake-baking (by my intrepid sister -- you know how well I'd pull that off, were it left to me), house tidying, grocery-shopping and the like caused the day to spin into a busy whirl of anticipation.

The usual sombre tone of Holy Week was lacking because... spoiler alert!, Jesus had already conquered death and brought my father into His Church. Or, at least would so, within a matter of few hours.

Opening up cards and gifts on Easter Sunday morning with his adoring fan club

Our kids were so touchingly excited. My mom and dad opted to arrive early at the church and Noah asked if he could come in the car with them. He told my mom on the way there that he was just so excited to hear the word "Alleluia" again, and he could feel it almost popping out of his mouth if he wasn't careful. Also, Isaiah afterwards told us that he loved the Vigil -- we realized he had only gone once, as a baby! -- and it was "way more interesting" than he had expected. He loved the candles and the fact that there were so many readings.

The Vigil was, indeed, beautiful, but I had almost forgotten about the momentousness of why were there until the priest invited my Dad, his brother who was acting as his sponsor, and my mom up to the front. The priest gave my Dad a microphone and as soon as I heard his voice say, "I hold and profess all that the Catholic Church teaches...," I wept. 

It was such a simple moment on the one hand -- a few words said and some oil pressed onto his forehead -- but borne out of scores of years of prayer and witness on my mom's part to him, and nourished by the deeply moral, principled life my father has always lived. Truly, my Dad's conversion shouldn't have have come as a surprise to me at all.

But it was certainly a triumph.

Besides the Easter Vigil Mass itself, my favourite moment was the following morning. As a surprise, my mom had ordered t-shirts for all the grandchildren that said "I love my Gooey."

Dad was up early Easter Sunday morning prepping turkey dinner and tidying from his own party, despite being up hosting until midnight the night before. Such is the predictable way of my quiet,  servant-hearted father. Still, on so little sleep, he trucked off to Easter Sunday Mass that morning with Patrick. Just the two most important men in my life, now sharing in their common faith. Again, I was moved to blurry-eyed tears.

When they returned, the kids were all wearing their t-shirts and staying in a line to greet their grandfather. Seeing them all there, he became immediately choked up.

Now that we have come and gone, I found myself preoccupied with thoughts of my Dad while I was at Mass yesterday morning. I have only attended Mass with him once since he became a Catholic, the Vigil itself. But now any time we visit him, or he visits us, we will all go up to receive the source and summit of our faith.

I hope the wonder of that doesn't ever dissipate.