Last weekend was Easter Sunday, the glorious holiday where my house is full of even more eggs than usual. I’m not a practicing Catholic, but I consider myself an egg lover and a casual child of G-d.
I’m also pretty big on sinning. Not trying to give you all too much information, but I am a prideful, wrathful glutton who slights her neighbors in the elevator and holds hands with boys without wearing gloves. Sometimes I even hold hands with girls. I probably sin once a day at least.
I don’t usually think about it that much, but when my mom left early in the morning to visit family friends from New Jersey, she waved goodbye and smiled a smile that said, “Siena, it’s time for you to pull your little nose out of the gutter and start walking the straight and narrow.”
The door barely closed before I started to cry. I’ve never felt particularly weighed on by God or Jesus or Mary or anything I’ve done in particular, but at that moment I felt completely overcome with godliness. My poor tear ducts just couldn’t take it! I began to weep like Jesus had come to me himself. Quickly, in order to maximize this misery and emphasize the way birth, death, and rebirth go hand in hand in hand on this holy day, I ran and pulled on my best Christmas sweater.
Praise Jesus! Hallelujah!