A Buried Alleluia

My Lenten fast has been bumpy. No voices raised. A hard habit to bury when hurried lives usher us from one event to another and shoes are always missing.

Small acts of inconvenience.

So often I cannot gather myself. My keys, my thoughts, much less their bodies, their lunches, their shoes.

My head buried in all that needs to be done.

Sunday comes again.

I walk my son into worship and choose seats in the back. He ignores my attempt to usher his body down the line and, instead, sits with a friend on the next row.

An act of small defiance.

Asserting his free will. He’s gathering independence as my mind stays scattered. Is he paying attention? Are others watching? Judging? His head buried in an electronic device.

Song begins around us.

He turns his body abruptly in my direction. Alleluia offered on screens. Alleluia in voices raised. The alleluia he was taught to put away til Easter.

An act of small obedience.

So I find he is listening. To teachers at the episcopal school. To a room of Baptists unaccustomed to this practice. He is listening even now to me.

Song continues around us.

My breath stops short at this ancient praise to be one with him in this Lenten fast. No voices raised. Together we wait at the tomb.

An act of small connection.

A silent offering of thanks for motherhood and ministry, for young hearts trusting you to usher new life out of the dead.

Your body buried to teach us of hope and rest and love.

Sunday comes again.