It’s the third Sunday in Eastertide. I am in Chicago, and I am quietly questing.

Late last summer, my very best friend and I began planning the kind of trips I could better take once retired. One of our favorite pieces of music is Mendelssohn’s Elijah so we went searching for a destination to hear it.

Which is how I ended up in Chicago in the middle of the three weeks between my mother’s death and burial.

We are staying in a lovely downtown hotel where everything we need is in walking distance.

The symphony.

The Chicago Institute of Art.

Coffee.

Ice cream.

Church.

It’s been a quiet break in the midst of the mourner’s path. Shared conversation with a most trusted friend, beauty everywhere, soul-filling music, and a bit of respite.

Before I fly home to prepare for my mother’s burial next Saturday.

Quietly questing for peace.

On Easter Monday, my mother was resurrected. Finally, she has that peace that surpasses all of our imaginations and understandings.

Meanwhile, my heart is broken wide. I know that God’s peace is near— but for me, for now, it’s a spiritual concept, not a feeling.

After our long days and nights of the vigil of withedness as Mother moved from this life to the next, after sorting through a few matters, I came home for a few days to rest.

I’m not crying much yet—probably, as the big sister, the priest expert, and will executor, my head is too full. I can feel those tears stuffed in my chest. I know they will break through.

On my plane ride home from Dallas, the first tears broke through. I had made a playlist of music that had been a comfort, and hands over my face, turned towards the window, finally, I wept.

At church on Sunday, going to receive Eucharist, with the cloud of witnesses in heaven and on earth , the tears broke through again. The kindness of the leadership made it safe to simply be.

I’m on a quick flight back to Dallas again. My brothers and I will meet with the lawyers, will make final plans for my mother’s burial, and pick up Mother’s cremains.

Steps towards opening my heart to peace.

After over thirty years of deeply walking Holy Week, the Tridium, and the Day of Resurrection through the beautiful Episcopal liturgy as a priest, this Holy Week I have experienced the liturgy of the dying.

The Tridium of the dying.

Maundy Thursday. My mother’s last meal. My mother’s last time to sit in her prayer chair for Scripture, prayer, and coffee.

Good Friday. My daughter coming to be with her Grandma, reading aloud all of the kind words people had written in response to her blog, Grandma’s Chocolate Pie.

Holy Saturday. My brother and I, weary, moving slowly through day, doing only what was essential.

My youngest brother arrived with my dear sister in law about eleven that night, and we four laughed a bit as we shared stories. Together we then prayed the Episcopal Prayers at the Time of Death. He and his wife took the night watch so my middle brother and I could rest.

This early morning of the resurrection, I tended to my mother, and then stepped outside in her greening gardens, listening to the Easter hymn of my Baptist childhood, Up from the grave he arose.

The hymn starts slowly, somberly, quietly:

Low in the grave He lay
Jesus my Savior.
Waiting the coming day
Jesus my Lord.

Then everything changes: quickly, exuberantly, joyfully:

Up from the grave He arose
With a mighty triumph o’er His foes
He arose a Victor from the dark domain
And He lives forever with His saints to reign
He arose! (He arose)
He arose! (He arose)
Hallelujah! Christ arose!

As I walked the land we call the farm, there was beginng light and only the sound of birds singing.

Weary from yesterday’s vigil, everyone else was still asleep. It was quiet in the garden.

My heart was open.

It remains open as we await the resurrection of my mother.

Meanwhile.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

For weeks I had planned to spend Palm Sunday through Easter Monday at Our Lady of Grace Monastery in Indiana. Sister Sheila and Sister Luke had given me a warm welcome when I asked if I could join them, and the thought of walking with the Sisters through the week long liturgy filled me with prayerful joy.

Then Holy Trinity in Port Neches asked if I could serve on Palm Sunday. They are located near the Louisiana border and have great difficulty finding clergy. They hadn’t had Eucharist since January. How could I say no to this invitation?

I changed my plane tickets to arrive at Our Lady of Grace on Holy Monday.

Then my brother called and said my mom had taken a turn for the worse. I changed my plane ticket again, told the sisters I could not join them, and flew to my mom’s Holy Monday evening.

A Holy Week. Not as expected.

Holy Tuesday was spent rearranging my mom’s room so that we could replace her bed with a hospital bed. A little miracle happened in the deep cleaning—her engagement ring which had been lost for years was found tucked under her headboard. In the midst of challenges—such joy!

Holy Tuesday night/early Holy Wednesday morning felt like a Garden of Gethsemane. My mother had a great deal of confusion and restlessness getting used to her new bed, and nearly every thirty minutes was punctuated with a sharp cry, “Beth!”

I wanted so much to give my brother the night off, and mainly did.

As I tried to find sleep between caring for my mom, I prayed. At one point, I felt such a sense of being with Jesus in the Garden as he prayed the night he was to be arrested.

His words and mine intertwined:

Can you not stay awake with me?

Take this cup from me!

Not my will, God, but yours.

This is not the Holy Week retreat I expected, but in the challenges, fellowship, suffering, and even laughter, it is a Holy Week indeed.