Easter is the time when I resent my Catholic upbringing the most. As the dozenth child of parents who only stopped when they got it right with my little sister, Ria, I was marched off to Mass on Easter Friday knowing that Jesus had died on that day. Died! Horribly. As such, I would be required to grieve for him for three tortuous hours in St Patrick’s Church, Kilmore, because he had done this for me! For my sins! I hadn’t committed any yet, but I would be obliged to one day, seeing as how he’d gone to all that bother. (And I am pretty obliging). I would stand in line and kiss his marble feet, despite the hygiene issues; and have his body placed on my tongue by a dodgy character’s hand, despite the hygiene issues. All the while knowing there was to be no television afterwards, that I would have another two hour Mass to endure the following night, and that the badly hidden chocolate in our house was forbidden for another two full days. My life would cloud with grief on Good Friday. I would fight with my siblings, and cry. If fun seemed imminent, it was doused, quickly.

My Easter rebellion goes like this: I refuse to give anything up for Lent; I watch television on Good Friday, eat chocolate whenever I want, and have as much fun as I can.

…I feel very guilty about it.


~ by helenfitzgerald on April 24, 2011.


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