Passover begins at sundown, and Easter is celebrated on Sunday, making this a holy week for Christians and Jews alike. This week also marks a notable anniversary. One year ago, the world watched in horror as the iconic Cathedral of Notre Dame burned.
Parisians poured into the streets crying and singing, hugging and swaying in candlelight. In recent weeks, you might have seen the gorgeous videos of Italians serenading each across cobblestone streets during quarantine.
Such beauty in chaos reminds us that humans yearn to metabolize grief together. While there may not always be purpose to our suffering, we can still find meaning. For no other reason than because inhabiting our pain tenderizes us to the pain of others.
For those who celebrate these religious traditions, coming together will look different this year, and that may be particularly challenging. We may miss gathering in person. We may miss the smell of our mother’s dishes. We may miss holding hands together in prayer. It can feel discomforting and tiring to continually seek new ways to engage in community.
During this season of turning from darkness to light, Christians use the symbol of the tomb at Easter to remind us that even the darkest death can bring new life.
But what if this moment isn’t a tomb, but a womb?
What could this moment of pregnant anticipation be telling us? How can we be the midwives to the future we want to birth?
We don’t know what’s on the other side, or how long it’s going to take us to get there. But the only way out is through.
Bearing down, sweating, pushing. Holding hands. In this together.