Easter happened. Came and went, fading too quickly into distant memory. A thief in the night. I feel robbed.
I feel robbed because I wanted to mourn. I wanted two and a half days spent in utter despair, tears free to flow. I wanted to feel. I wanted to put myself once more in that dark place I felt approaching the cross as Peter in AWAKEN. My friend, hanging on a cross. Buried in a tomb. My life once again mundane, tedious, hopeless.
I wanted to spend two and a half days praying. Crying out to God. Pouring my heart into private and corporate worship. Gathering with friends in our own [metaphorical] upper room.
Instead I feel cheated. The Triduum, historically my favorite series of church services in the liturgical calendar, cheapened Easter for me this year. We didn't crucify Jesus until Friday night, and then barely 26 hours later, Saturday night, we rung bells celebrating resurrection. Easter. I was not ready.
A month later, I'm still struggling to cope.