Last Easter, I went alone to Mass celebrated in Bahasa Indonesia. I took a taxi on a sunny, humid morning to a church in Kuta, Bali, passed armed guards and under a metal detector, and sat in overflow seating a plastic chair outdoors. I didn’t understand a word, but I knew when to sit, stand and kneel. On the way back to the hotel, consumed with my thoughts, we drove past a monkey wearing clothes, sitting on a tiny bicycle, attached to a leash his owner held. I missed the photo op.
Today, Myke and I arrived late to Mass and stood in the foyer of a large Virginia church, straining to hear. We didn’t kneel. Later, there was food with family and a long spring walk. We drove home under a threatening storm, watching the lightning to the north and brake lights on every side.
