Days That are Holy

for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif : 
holy days, and what makes them holy.

Easter Sunday, 1960

My little sister has long blonde ringlets,
a pale yellow dress with crinolines,
and a pinafore.
New shoes, hers patent leather,
mine my first Princess heels.
I have a tan fuzzy sailor hat with a wide round brim,
under which my blue eyes ask:
am I good enough?
I wear immaculate white gloves, to the wrist,
my first lipstick,
and a permanent, which transforms my hair
from straight and lanky
to something bouncier,
with curls.
I feel reborn, and hopeful;
it is a time of transformation.

We gather out front to see and be seen,

then we file through the heavy doors 

into the vestry,

dip fingertips

into the holy water font,

genuflect respectfully

towards the tabernacle,

and climb the creaking stairs to the choir loft.

The sun is shining through the stained glass
and it feels like
Resurrection morning.
All my life, it has been cloudy on Good Friday
and sunny on Easter morning.

The priest and altar boys file out,

incense in the censer 

swinging on chains,

and all is hushed reverence,

rustling, pages turning,

muffled coughs.

The Apostles Creed rings out,

and all are on bended knee

as the Agnus Dei sounds.

And then, from the choir loft,

magnificently,

our hearts swelling,

voices blending and soaring,
bass, alto, soprano,

the Hallelujah Chorus rings out,

above the bowed heads of the faithful,

hearts rise,

angels bend near to hear

the joy of Easter

rising

in all hearts.

That Easter, we were housed in the small old Church like the one in the picture above. A bigger, newer church was built soon after. But I preferred the old one, which felt holy with all of the years of prayers, of praise and supplication,  that had been uttered there.

Blessings to all who celebrate, whatever your beliefs, the great wonder of this time of renewal.