Easter Unexpected

All week I told everyone how excited I was to go home for Easter. I had been abroad for Easter last year and I will be abroad for Easter next year, so I wanted to absorb as much “Home Easter” as possible because I didn’t know when I’d celebrate it with my family again. I was excited for all our favorite traditions- going up north for Good Friday, going to the Easter Vigil at St. Philomena’s, my beloved home parish, brunch on Easter Sunday morning, and then a huge dinner with our extended family on Sunday night. So it made it all the worse when I got home and found out that Easter was going to be a little different this year.

Due to the snow up north, my mom explained to me, we would be staying home on Good Friday. She added that we wouldn’t be celebrating the Easter Vigil at our home parish either. She was the sponsor for a man who would soon receive the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation, which meant we would attend the Easter Vigil at St. Charles, a different church in Detroit. “Ugh,” I mock complained (though I’m not going to lie there was definitely a note of truth there), “Why did I even come home?”

While missing Friday was disappointing, it provided me with a chance to catch up with friends and spend time with my family, which were all good things. But missing the Easter Vigil at St. Philomena’s was killing me. I’m obsessed with my home parish. It is full of the nicest people you’ve ever met. It is a very laid back place that accepts everyone and makes each member feel like family. It’s led by Father Pete, a 97 year old priest with the biggest heart in the world. I wanted to celebrate mass in the parish that feels as close to “home” to me as my own house.

So naturally, being the amazing model Catholic I am, I grumbled about missing St. Philomena’s Easter Vigil the entire way to St. Charles. My mom tried to explain the extraordinary story of conversion that had taken place for the man she was sponsoring. He had attended the Capuchin Soup Kitchen for years, becoming friends with the religious that served there, but only now had experience the love of Christ and felt called to fully enter the church. But I wasn’t letting myself be moved. I wasn’t allowing myself to open up to enjoying this mass. I was determined to have a terrible time.

That was until the choir began to sing. There was a gospel choir that made me weak in the knees at the very first note. They made me want to both sing along, but also sit and savor the experience. It was honestly so incredible. There was also a group of dancers that performed with the readings. Obviously, I was so excited about this and I loved the way they made the readings richer.

The most beautiful part of the mass was the sacrament of Baptism. It was done outside, in the streets of Detroit, in 35 degree weather. The baptisms were done full immersion style in what my family lovingly dubbed “the holy hot tub.” As each candidate immerged from the water, the congregation erupted in“Alleluia!” It was as if the whole church was rejoicing for them. I felt a swell of victory and joy as each new member joined our church.

I would eventually learn more about St. Charles. About how my grandmother lived across the street, how my great grandparents were wed there, and how my grandmother’s graduation picture hung in the basement. It was a place that had felt like home for my family long before I arrived there. But it was through the joyous hearts of the congregation that I began to feel like it was a home as well.

The next morning we went to brunch as usual, searched for our Easter baskets, and went to our family Easter party. The rest of our traditions fell into place as if nothing had been different at all. I’m still missing St. Philomena’s, but I know it will be there each week when I visit. But the beauty of conversion and community I saw at St. Charles was unique and lively in it’s own vibrant way and I feel lucky to have witnessed it.