Easter egg dying is, I believe, most traditionally done on Holy Saturday--a day of moderate celebration before true Easter--but I always try to do it earlier because we are volunteering at church that morning and want to have the eggs ready for the Blessing of Baskets. Thus, this year, the eggs fell on Good Friday, which is a penitential day and not the ideal day for dying eggs. Chalk it up yet again to this Mama just chugging along, trying her best, and flubbing up regularly enough.
I would dye more eggs, but only one child and I enjoy hard boiled eggs, and I don't want to waste them.
Chris took the oldest two children to Stations of the Cross and Confession at noon, while I kept the youngest three home for Quiet Time and naps, which fell conveniently during the traditional time of noon to three on Good Friday when talking should be kept to the bare minimum of necessities.
Photos of the Stations of the Cross were taken by the professional photographer.
Then we joined the rest of the family for the three o'clock Passion, Veneration of the Cross, and Holy Communion.
That is, to say, we tried.
This historic traditional Triduum is being held, not at our regular parish, but at the Catholic high-school, which has a chapel understandably lacking a cry room. Under normal, happy circumstances, high-schoolers do not need a cry room!
I spent forty-five minutes just ambling around with my one- and four-year-olds, marveling at the futility of keeping them quiet or still. With doors closed and no sound system in the hallway or outdoors, of course, I could neither see nor hear anything going on with the beautiful sung Passion. I noted the marked absence of young children at this event.
Finally, I waved the proverbial white flag, loaded up the children, and proceeded to drive around for another hour and fifteen minutes, during which the well-rested baby sang happily and the exhausted-four-year-old-who-had-refused-to-nap-during-nap-time fell deeply asleep.
. . . Until he woke up in a confused state and screamed incoherently for 20 minutes.
When planning, I often review my blog for major holidays to remind myself of my own family traditions. Therefore, I shall now insert a note for Katherine of 2018:
Do not even attempt to attend any portion of the five hours of Good Friday liturgies. Stay home near your hearth and take care of the young souls God has given you. Do not let pride drag you to church because 'surely a good Catholic mother SHOULD be able to take her it-doesn't-matter-how-young children to this lengthy, challenging event.' Just stay home. No really, I am serious.
Signed, Katherine of 2017
P.S. I swear, I am serious. Stay home.
Photos of the Passion below are from the professional photographer.
Chris mercifully took us to a deli for a meatless dinner that kept my pregnant self off my feet.
We pulled into the driveway, adults ready to collapse, when not five minutes later we heard blood curdling screams outdoors, which are instantly different than the ear-piercing screams we hear on a daily basis.
There had been a Sibling Accident resulting from Foolishness Which Knows Few Bounds (and we shall leave it at that) such that Joseph (4) had a gash on his forehead and blood streaming down his face. Boy, do head wounds bleed!
|Huge bandage for dramatic effect to make the boy feel better|
We thought we might be in for some Good Friday suffering, but were exceedingly thankful that Josey did not sustain a concussion or need stitches.
Idea for next year taken from a holy mother of 13 in my homeschooling circle: she stayed home today and did the Holy Week housecleaning with her children, who chose to try to remain silent except for needful speaking all day. Now that is a sacrifice and penitential way to spend the day that respects the family's season in life.