Murder?  Vigilante justice?  Justifiable homicide?  All of the above via public execution?  Most definitely.

To be clear, I am no fan of capital punishment, regardless of the situation.  But I myself carried out a very public execution of an unusually cruel and harsh clock radio eleven years ago right before my college career came to an end.

The fraternity house on College Street was a special place.  There were thirty-six guys living under one roof and we all got along relatively well.  We helped each other, we cared for each others, we were brothers to one another.

But like any family, we had some differences.

Packed into a room with sometimes up to five guys, you learn a lot about them, some that you find endearing, some that you find obnoxious.  But only Bob’s clock radio, was truly unbearable.

The fall of my senior year, I lived in the far southwest corner of the house, with beds bunked three high.  I had the bottom bunk, Bob had the middle.  Bob was ambitious and smart, a premed student with the very best of intentions.  Every morning, Bob’s alarm clock would go off precisely at 5:30am.  Bob, like any normal college student would hit snooze and go back to sleep.  Trouble was, when he hit snooze…his alarm would fall off the edge of his bed and down into my bunk.

And this was no ordinary alarm clock.

Like something that resembled out of tune bagpipes, nails on a chalkboard, and a dying goat every morning it would sound. This alarm had a pitch and sound to it that should be banned by the Geneva Convention.  The Bush administration refused to use this particular alarm clock in the cells in Guantanamo.  Police departments should have studied this alarm for non-lethal ways of combating crime…simply plug this alarm clock into a violent crime and let it go off at 5:30 in the morning without letting it stop and the entire area will be cleared for two blocks around.  The alarm clock seemed like it was forged in the very bowels of Hades.

And every morning at 5:30am in would be knocked to the ground directly next to my ear.

I would have preferred the sound of finger nails on a chalkboard.

By the end of the semester, I had had it.  All the next spring, I talked about Bob’s alarm clock.  People laughed about it, but those rooming with Bob, gave only nervous chuckles, for they knew the alarm…and they feared it.

When graduating from my beloved fraternity, seniors are required to give a senior speech that gives memories, advice, and humorous anecdotes.  I decided that mine would also need a very public execution of that annoying alarm clock.

About thirty minutes before my speech, I approached Bob.

“Bob, your alarm clock is going to die tonight.” I said resolutely.

“Ha, ha!” Bob said, “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to kill it.” I replied.

Ha, ha!” Bob replied.

He had no idea.

With a cement block and hammer hidden out of sight, I gave my memories and advice to my brothers.  Then out came the block, the hammer, and Bob’s alarm clock.

Everyone laughed.  Some nervously, still in fear of this brooding evil timepiece.

Turning the alarm on so that everyone could hear the evil in its incessant beeping and blumping.  Raising my hammer, I condemned the clock to the far reaches of a place that is known for being eternally very, very, very hot and proceeded to swing.

Everyone cheered…except Bob…I don’t think he thought it was going to happen…

But the clock wouldn’t die!  I swung and swung and swung and swung until it was shattered into millions of pieces and the last beep came from its cursed speaker.

The room fell quiet.  Then the cheering started anew.  It was finished.

But there was justice for me.  I had to buy Bob a new alarm clock.  But it was worth it.

Oh yes…it was worth it….

 Once the sandbags were in place, we weren’t done yet.  Because of the number of volunteers and the proximity of our efforts, we were asked to fill sandbags for some of the surrounding areas.  Without a whimper, the one hundred or so volunteers went right to work.

Teams of two filled sandbags, one with a shovel, one holding the bags.  Usually two or three sandbagging teams were fed empty bags by one other person.  The full bags were hauled off to the edges of the effort to be stacked neatly on pallets (this was the crew I worked on).  Another team of folks were helping direct the forklifts taking the full pallets away and bringing empty one’s in their place.

It was a community effort.

The last sandbag was filled and the last sand scooped up by about 6:30pm, it was a long ten hour shift.  There was still a small team working to secure the last of the pallets and load them on waiting trailers.  But our job was done.

With one last sandwich, a couple of cookies, and a bottle of water, with our weary and sore crew - my brother, sister-in-law, and two nieces, we gathered up bar pans and shovels and headed for the car.  One last look at the river before we headed for the safety of my brother’s home - twenty-five miles to the east and far out of the reach of the flood plain - brought a reassuring sign, the river seemed to be stabilizing - was this the calm before the next advance?  We didn’t know, we just crossed our fingers and prayed.

On the drive back out of the town, the intersections that once had water in them now ran together in a several block stretch of straight water from the storm sewer back up.  The parking lot a couple of blocks from the river near the American Legion ballpark in north Moorhead had several feet of water covering it.  The National Guard Amory was packed with trucks and Humvee’s.  Throughout the day, the whirl of helicopters flying overhead had kept us enthralled, driving out, we watched one of the National Guard helicopters on the ground, refueling and reloading in a vacant, but dry lot, across from the Amory.

The feeling of fellowship and good cheer that we had just experienced along the river, once again gave way to a bit of foreboding as our efforts seemed to trivial as it seemed like swaths of the city stood poised to go under.

We drove out of town in silence.  Listening to the radio.  Listening for the next bit of news, and hoping, praying, for the best.

 I might make it all sound like hard work, and it was.  But growing up on a dairy farm, you learn some tricks of the trade that make even the hardest of work a little more bearable.  Or as I summed it up for one person, “There are 500 people here who have never heard my jokes before!”

And those poor 500 people.

During the lull in the flood fighting, waiting for sandbags, for the kids, it was my groaners.  Knock knock jokes.  Riddles.  For the adults, something a little more coarse, but still suitable for flood fighting…outside of a church.  I made sure that if I made fun of Catholics, the next joke would be about Lutherans.  Ole and Lena were commonly mentioned.  Interspersed were comments about the weather, about the river, and comments of encouragement.

On front line of the battle, I made sure that the one liners were steadily flowing. 

“Flooding, snowing, eating meat on Friday, Viking on one side, Packer on the other, Bison across from me, Sioux fan right next to them…is this Armageddon?”

“Swear if you want, we’re sandbagging a church - God has to forgive us!”

“Anyone else ready for a swim?”

“Come on, these things only weigh forty pounds…on average…”

But with the jokes came some serious chatter - when a knowingly heavy one would come down the line, I would let out a quick shout of “heavy” and people would brace themselves for it.

Words of encouragement and support were offered to those that looked tired and bedraggled.

This was my first eight hours on the front line, there were others that had been out there day after day for a week straight.

I didn’t know anyone on the front line, but it amazed me to find that usually the same group of twenty of thirty of us would all end up gathered at about the same spot in the lines.  A group of high school girls that joined our small group about half way through hollered at me as they walked back to their car at the end of the day…”That was fun!  Let me know next time you go sandbagging.”

Those poor, poor people….

 12:30pm the day of my flood fight, well fed, meat on a Friday in Lent and all, we waited for sand and more sandbags to show up.  And the crowd continued to grow.

Soon, trucks of sand arrived and the sandbagging started in earnest again.  One group started filling sandbags, the rest of us formed lines and worked to quickly get the sandbags in place.  We alternated between the pallets of sandbags that were brought forward from our own on sight sandbagging crews and pallets of sandbags filled off sight. 

Many hands made relatively light work, but some of those bags were still heavy.

My position was on the line on the north side of the church.  Bag after bag was passed hand-to-hand with people falling in and out of line as their stamina ebbed and flowed.  Young kids, no older then ten or twelve years old, men and women in their fifties and sixties, high schoolers, college kids, professionals, blue collar workers, Minnesotans, North Dakotans, Iowans, Bison fans, Sioux fans, Packer fans, Viking fans, males, females, African Americans, Norwegian Americans, Swedes, Poles, Czechs, Hispanics, Catholics, Lutheran, Muslims, fat people, skinny people - people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and faiths coming together to save a church and a neighborhood that most had no connection to - except they were in need.  They were driven by a need, a desire, a basic human virtue to help a friend - a fellow man - in need.

We formed one line, then divided into two lines, then back into one as the bags moved back and forth across the ever growing dikes.

A volunteer on a four-wheeler and a team of folks road around the dike with a standard GPS system from a local farmer, checking the elevation and making sure that the dike was high enough on all sides to keep the flood waters at bay.

When the north side was done, we moved to the south side and joined the lines in progress there as they stretched to reach the dike on the west side, towards the might Red River of the North.

From 12:30pm to 3:30pm it was just one long slow grinding process, pitching the bags as they came flying down the lines.  Bag after bag.

At 3:30pm, the dike 90% complete, the sand ran out.  Many volunteers dispersed to other neighborhoods, other homes, or back to their homes for well needed rest.

But a large number of us stayed for more sand and more sandbags to show up.  Bolstered with ham and cheese or bologna sandwiches (thanks again Father!), we filled again and put the final touches on the dike in short order.  By 5:00pm, the dike was declared complete.  Twice as wide as it was tall, covered in plastic, measured to exact measurements, a line of sandbags tucked neatly all the way around the base to keep the plastic in place.  It looked formidable.

And we hoped it would hold.

 It was not a good Lent.  I struggled.  I struggled with my Lenten promises - the things that I swore to do, or not to do.  I struggled with my prayer life.  I struggled in my faith.

Things just didn’t turn out the way I wanted them too.  But I think that is ok.

If you look at the people, the characters in the Passion narrative, the people in the Easter story, they too struggled.

Jesus asked that the cup be taken from him.  He sweat blood he was so distressed.  Yet the cup, his cruel humiliation and death on the cross, was not to be denied.

Judas suffered.  What his thoughts, his motives were, we can only guess.  Greed?  Misplaced faith in the priests and temple officials?  In the end, he sold out his friend Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.  When faced with the inner struggle of the heart, he chose to end his life, rather then live with the guilt.

Peter suffered.  Jesus told him that he would deny Him three times.  Peter said even if I have to die with You, I will never deny you.  And yet, Peter denied Him.  The Gospel tells us that Peter went out and wept bitterly.

All of Jesus’ follows suffered.  They fled from their friend.  They left him abandoned in His darkest hour of need.

From the very high of the Passover Feast when triumph seemed so close.  When it appeared that things were going fine and just as expected.  It hit the very low of Good Friday.  How quickly things can turn.

How could anyone have foresaw the triumphant joy of Easter.

Jesus lived and rose triumphant.

Judas chose to end his life, rather then have faith in his friend that he betrayed.

Peter repented and chose to live on, to have faith in what lay ahead, regardless what it may be.

How very different those choices where - but in many ways, we face those same choices today.

We can be like Judas and decry the cruelness of this life.  We can choose to focus on negative, we can choose to be bitter.  We can chose to die - perhaps not physically, but in our faith life, in our community of the spirit.  We can chose to give up hope and live - and die - in misery.

Or we can be like Peter, who weak as he was, chose repentance and vowed to do better.  We can make the choice to be and become better with each passing day.  We can choose to celebrate and live in the joy of Easter, while still working to make our lives and the lives of those around us better.

I struggled with Lent, and in many ways those struggles continue, but I can chose to accept those struggles with the joy of Easter in my heart.

 It used to be one of the most hated jobs on the farm.  My brothers and I would cringe whenever we heard those words….”we should really blade that road.”

Blading the road, smoothing out the ruts and washboards that develop throughout the year on our gravel driveway sounds like such an innocent process.  Those accustomed to rural living are very familiar with the process, a large machine with an angled blade cuts into the gravel, pushing it first across one way, then the other.  It removes the ruts and washboards and distributes the gravel across the road, with a little more towards the middle, and a little less around the edges which allows it to shed water and move outward as traffic moves over the surface - so the gravel gradually moves towards the edges as tires fling it upwards and outwards.

It sounds easy, but like many things, it depends upon the equipment you have to work with.

On our farm, we had the old township road grader.  And when I say old, I’m not kidding.  This thing is over, perhaps well over, eighty years old.  Rusted red with time and converted long, long ago from a two horse hitch to a tractor hitch.

It is fairly simple.  The tractor pulls it forward down the road, a large angled blade in the middle moves the dirt to one side.  It is raised and lowered by gears and two large wheels in the back, which are run by someone sitting on the very back on a seat that hangs out, precariously, over the road.  Your butt will feel it if you should fall off - and it bounces and threatens to break off as it has been worn with age and use of some big framed farmers.

Pulled from the weeds once or twice a year (this last weekend, also out of standing water and ice), it creaks to life.

But the road grader was the not challenge.  It merely compounded the problem.

Normally calm, collected, stoic family members would become stark raving lunatics while riding on the back of the road grader.

Turning the wheels furiously, they would shout out directions to the person driving the tractor, and scream all the louder when their commands to go one way or the other went unheeded.

And why wasn’t the person driving the tractor listening?  Because it was hard to hear over 100 horsepower engine purring in front of you with leaking muffler and closed up tractor cab.  Scratch that, not hard…impossible.

Not that it would have mattered.  Being on the ground and observing it would have been impossible to understand anyway, “Get over!  Get over!  Get over!”  The person on the back might shout.  Right?  Left?  Who knew.

I’ve ridden on the seat myself, and while I’m normally a calm, well reasoned person, sitting on that seat I had to catch myself several times yelling incoherently and trying to get the person in the tractor to understand as I was spinning the wheels on back to make the blade go up and down.

In short, no one wanted to be that guy in the tractor.  Regardless what happened or how good they were, nothing could be good enough.

I think my brother and I conquered that this last weekend.  When Dad said those fateful words, “You boys should grade the driveway while you are both home.” I think we both flinched.  As brothers, we love each other, but rarely can we leave each other without some scathing commentary.

So grading the driveway would be a challenge under normal circumstances…the two of us would even be a bigger one.

But it got done.  Quickly, efficiently, and perhaps most surprising…calmly, politely, and with a certain degree of kindliness.  A lot of the credit goes to my brother.  Rather then vocalize, he used quick, clear hand gestures, when the grader seemed to have a mind of its own (sliding to one side of the road despite the best efforts of the grader operator or tractor driver), he merely looked up, smiled and shrugged his shoulders….

In the end, the job was done - and was done well.  Who knows, the next time we get together, we might even volunteer to grade the driveway.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

Yep, that’s right, I’m getting just a touch homesick for the farm back home.  It probably wouldn’t be so bad if were living in Minneapolis, Chicago or Vladivostok, but here we are right in the middle of Kossuth County, Iowa.  For acres and acres as far as the eye can see, farmers are reving up their tractors for spring planting.

It’s just a little tough for a farm-boy like me to sit inside and peck away at a keyboard while the farmers are getting ready to stir up some dust.

Six months ago I’d have never have admitted that I missed the cows either.  While I was in high school I would have given anything to get rid of those dirty so-and-sos.  I guess I was suffering from just one too many dung-filled tail-slaps in the face.

So here I sit.  No milk buckets to carry, no manure to pitch-I’m getting soft.  For weeks I’ve been telling myself that I’m not gaining weight, but I’m sure getting tired of cutting myself in half everytime I put my pants on in the morning. 

I used to have calluses on my hands too.  I was pretty proud of those.  These weren’t your mere hardening-of-the-skin calluses, but real hard-as-leather-discolored-skin calluses.  When I was a little tyke I couldn’t wait until I had hard dark hands like Dad.  Then I would be a real farmer.

Now I don’t even have dirt under my fingernails.

Every now and then I hop in my pickup and go fir a drive in the country.  Just to pretend.  There is nothing quite like the thrill you can get from listening to a heavy diesel tractor idling in a field or farm yard.  It’s quite a feeling of power to know that just a the touch of your hand, you can send that tractor roaring off down the field to rip up all those nasty weeds.

The old tractors are fun too.  We had several Farmalls.  An “H,” a “Super M” and a “Super MTA” were the mainstays of power on our little farm You just couldn’t destroy those old tractors- you just recycled the them.  Every 6 or 7 years we would tear them apart, fix them up, and put them back together again and they would be nearly as good as new.  Through the entire process you prayed that you didn’t have any extra pieces left over when you were finished.

Unlike many youngsters, I was no stranger to metal tractor seats.  More than a few evenings it was more comfortable for me to stand than sit day after day in the field.

In order to stop this rambling reminiscence before it gets out of hand, I’ll tell you that since I am no longer a real farm boy, I’m going to pretend in our backyard.

Much to my wife’s growing dismay, I’ve started some plants in a sunny window of our spare room and I’ve got little packets of seeds heaped up in the middle of the dining room table.  I’m just raring to go for “spring planting.”

Next week I’m going down to a hardware store and pick out a shiny new shovel, rake and hoe.  I can already tell this is going to be fun, I think.

Meanwhile, Mary wails in the background, “What are we going to do with all this stuff if it all grows?”

I guess she just hasn’t realized that crop surpluses are a part of farming.

 As human beings, we have a desire to control things.  Mother nature bends to our whim.  Dams, dikes, and levee’s protect out cities.  Cloud seeding, channels, aquaducts, piping, and irrigation canals allow us to harvest the bounty of arid lands and live in areas where water could never reach.  Medicine and our health care system makes most diseases that used to kill, now minor inconviences.

Our free will, our God given abilities, our very nature allows us to conquer the globe and the space beyond and all that reside there in.

But there are still things beyond our reach, beyond the reaches of technology, beyond the reaches of our understanding.

Bad things continue to happen to good people.  Illness, death, destruction continue to plague us.  Our inner souls are tormented by thoughts of those things we have done - or didn’t do.  We fail to comprehend our past at times, and live in fear for the future.

On this night, the Lord celebrated the Passover feast, that ancient Jewish Holy Day, with his disciples.  The Gospel paints one picture for us, but I like to imagine it as being a lively, spirited conversation - with all of His friends in high spirits.  Things were going well.  Jesus seemed to be growing more and more stature with the people.  Perhaps he would be the mighty ruler to set them free.  He had risen people from the dead, he had cured the sick, he had taught in the temple, he had been hailed as a conquering hero only days before as he entered Jeruselem.

One of the mysteries to me is what Jesus truly knew.  John tells us that he knew his time on earth had come to an end, and he knew who would betray him, but being human in nature, did he know what lie in front of Him?  Or did he perceive?  The signs to the contrary were true as well.  The prophesy of suffering.  The Old Testament readings of the suffering servant.  The whispers that the temple court were trying to trap him.  Probably rumors that one of His disciples was going to betray Him.  As humans, we can’t know what He knew…but I like to think that He, being human, didn’t know what was coming the next several days…he knew he was in trouble, mortal peril, but didn’t know how events would unfold.

It was on this night, the night of the Passover, that our Lord taught us one of the greatest prayers:

“Father, all things are possible to you.  Take this cup away from me, but not my will, but your will be done.”

Jesus Christ was God, He had authority over all things in the heavens and earth.  Yet, he was submitting to the will of His Father.

How much more so should we do so?  In our daily lives, we fight, we struggle, we learn, we grow - but there are still things outside of our control.  We are human.

Our Savior taught us that regardless how many things we conquer in life, on earth, and in the universe, we must too have the wisdom and humility to say, “Father, all things are possible to you.  Take this cup away from me, but not my will, but your will be done.”

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today)  

I’m feeling unappreciated and underpaid.  There’s a stack of phone messages on my desk that resembles a small book.  My “in” basket is threatening to collapse the corner of my desk.  I deserve more respect and more pay.

I’ll bet you do too.  It doesn’t matter if you drive trains, sack groceries, cut hair or sell cars for a living, you probably feel unappreciated and underpaid sometimes.

So what do you do about it?  You grumble a little bit under your breath.  You buy your buddies a beer after work on Friday night so you can commiserate with each other.  You complain to your spouse about it.  You might even peruse the want ads for a new job every now and again. But that’s about it.  We grin and bear it day after day.

For most of us, that’s the way life is.  If we want our paycheck at the end of the month, we have to put in our time and keep most of our thoughts about being unappreciated and underpaid to ourselves.

Apparently that’s not the case if you play baseball.

Barry Bonds, an outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, has been sulking and moping around the Pirate’s spring training facility because he only making $2.3 million a year.

Poor guy.  Hiss moodiness resulted in a profanity -laced confrontation with manager Jim Leyland.

If you and I got involved in a profanity-laced confrontation with our bosses, we probably wouldn’t have jobs.  Yes, Bonds is an outstanding ball player, but I bet you’re pretty good at what you do too.

And Bonds isn’t the only baseball standout throwing temper tantrums.  Oakland A’s outfielder Rickey Henderson is only making $3 million a year.  He’s upset about that so he showed up one day late for spring training.  Why don’t you and I skip work on Friday in protest and demand that our employers pay what we are worth?  Sure.  And I’ll see you in the unemployment line on Monday.

Cincinnati Reds Pitcher jack Armstrong and catcher Joe Oliver are protesting.  The each wants $100,000 more a year.  Me too.

So what should we do?  Do we walk into work tomorrow, demanding the respect and wages we deserve?  Do we refuse to work another day until our demands are met?  Do we threaten to take our talents somewhere else, where they will be appreciated?  Do we take action?

Nah.  That’s because you and I have a reality clause in our contracts.  So we’ll show up on time.  We’ll punch the clock, do the work and smile at the boss.  There are bills to pay, you know.

That’s not to say you can’t employ a little baseball entrepreneurship after hours.  I have a plan of my own that ought to net me enough for a trip to Minneapolis to see the Twins play sometime this summer.  The best part is it’s an opportunity for you.

All you have to do is send me a copy of this column with a dollar bill and a stamped self-addressed envelope.  I’ll autograph it and send it back.  If you want me to scrawl a special message, send it along and I’ll gladly comply.  Remember, these will be collector’s items someday.  And if you’re careful not to wrinkle your newspaper, they are probably suitable for framing.

 Holy Week, that time in the Christian Calendar between Palm Sunday and Easter was always a stressful, busy, holy, family filled, special time back home on the farm.

First, there were always the things that would change every year.

The weather in spring time, anywhere in the United States, but especially on the upper Great Plains, the confluence of so many different contrasting air masses created a grab bag of extremes.  Easter with snow?  Been there, done that.  Easter with drenching rain?  Check.  Easter with temperatures in the 80’s?  Yup.  Frost in the ground?  Frost out of the ground?  Frost on the ground?  Check.  Check.  Check.

Then there was school.  If the winter was exceptionally severe, they would adjust the Easter break to meet the demand for snow days.  If there were no snow days through the winter, we would have Holy Thursday, Easter Monday, and Good Friday.  If there was more snow days then expected, Easter Monday was the first day given back to the school year, Holy Thursday was the next.

But we always got Good Friday.

Work too was a bit of a wild card.  If Easter was late and the weather was nice, we may be working in the fields, working on the fences in the pastures, cleaning out the calf pens, or just working in the yard.  If Easter was early and the temperatures were cold, and the yard was muddy, then it was fighting with the mud and the muck to make sure that the livestock were cared for and the prep work in the shop and machine shed were taken care of.

But you always had the constants.

Mom and Dad always seemed a little more serene during Holy Week.  Their demeanor was one of quiet and respect.  There were times that, even when we deserved it and fifty one weeks out the year would have gotten a good talking too, we would get a few words, more of disappointment then scolding (and funny how that always seemed to hurt a little more too).

Church too was a constant.  Mom was an active member of the choir.  For every service, starting with Holy Thursday service, she could be found at St. Mike’s.  Working with the rest of the members of the choir - going through new arrangements, or working through the old favorites.  The highlight of the year for Mom was Holy Thursday and the singing of Pange Lingua in all its solemn beauty - for weeks before and after, you could hear Mom quietly singing, humming, or looking off with its words on lips:

Pange lingua gloriosi
Corporis mysterium,
Sanguinisque pretiosi,
Quem in mundi pretium
Fructus ventris generosi,
Rex effudit gentium.

Or in English:

Sing, my tongue, the Saviour’s glory,
of His flesh the mystery sing;
of the Blood, all price exceeding,
shed by our immortal King,
destined, for the world’s redemption,
from a noble womb to spring.

On Good Friday, we would all go to the Good Friday service, with the reading of the Passion, the Prayers of the faithful, the adoration of the cross, and Eucharist.  No television was permitted.  No meat.  No snacking.

On Holy Saturday, a day which should seem like any other, my folks set the tone.  It was quiet, it was somber, it was different.  This was the day Jesus was in the tomb.  That night, we could go to the Easter Vigil Service.

For those that have not been to an Easter Vigil Service at a Catholic Church, it is impressive.  The church shrouded in darkness - the light of the Easter candle is lit and spread to the congregation, the exhaltate is sang from the pulpit, the Old Testament readings are proclaimed - then in a mass of singing, bell ringing, and light, the transition from darkness to light is celebrated and concluded with Mass.

And the attitude at home changed too.

The solemn parents of the last week are converted into playful kids, packing Easter baskets, hiding Easter baskets, and joking and laughing in hushed tones to prevent waking the sleeping kids upstairs.

Easter Sunday, while solemn, was always joyful - regardless of the situation - economic, illness, hardship - nothing seemed to suppress the joy.  And it was always about family and good food.

They say that the traditions we learn are passed down through recitation, repetition, and imitation…so where will I be….Good Friday Service, Easter Vigil, and cooking Easter dinner for my Dad and a smatter of family and friends….with a smile on my lips and the Pange Lingua in my heart.