Last time I checked, I still had a pulse.

Over the last four days, there were times I wasn’t sure that would be the case. But at this late hour on Easter night, I can finally say, with certainty: I survived by first Triduum as a deacon.

Here’s what happened:

Wednesday I started to develop a sore throat and a cough and sinus congestion. Not encouraging. I stocked up on Airborne and some over the counter cold remedies.

Thursday morning, things got worse. I started to take the drugs. At 8:30, I left for the Chrism Mass at our cathedral, where I was to be one of the deacons serving the bishop. I’d never done that before. I’d never even set foot in the cathedral sacristy before. This would be interesting. My ears ached. I couldn’t stop coughing. Every ounce of moisture in my mouth had fled and was now pouring out my palms.

I survived the Chrism Mass – barely – even though I bungled the solemn blessing at the end. The bishop opted for an episcopal blessing, and as soon as I barked out the first word, “Bow…” (as in “Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing…”) I was drowned out by the bishop. D’oh. Mental note: next time, check with MC about which blessing he’ll use.

I got home around 1:00 and went straight to bed. Slept fitfully for a couple hours. Nibbled on some lunch. I took my temperature. 100.4. Great. I took some Advil and drank some juice. I was scheduled to preach at the Solemn Mass for the Lord’s Supper, so I reviewed my homily, then changed my clothes, and headed to church around 6:30.

Mass was at 7:30, and went smoothly. My homily went off without any problems. Meantime, everyone else in the rectory was sick and getting sicker. The pastor, the assistant, and the monsignor in residence were all running hundred degree temperatures and coughing up a storm. (Evidently, it began with the sacristan last Sunday, and we all got it.) Things were not looking very promising.

I staggered home around 9:30. My pastor, to his undying credit, sat and prayed before the Blessed Sacrament, in its temporary tabernacle, until midnight.

The next morning, my temperature was back to normal. My wife and I arrived at church around 11:30 to narrate the Living Stations of the Cross, acted out by children from our school. There was a brief rehearsal, and then the Living Stations at 1:00. I was feeling okay. I added Mucinex to my daily diet, and the cough had subsided. After the stations, I stayed to serve and preach the homily at the 3:00 pm liturgy. Then my wife and I went home, I took a brief nap, and then limped back to the Church for the 7:30 service, which included the musical oratorio “Seven Last Words of Christ” by DuBois.

By this time, my pastor sounded truly awful. Darth Vader by way of Marvin the Martian. After the service, I asked him, “Are you going to be okay to preach tomorrow at the Vigil? Or should I prepare something?”

“I’m going to try,” he wheezed, “but you better prepare something as backup.”

Got home around 9:00, and spent a couple hours working on a homily. Chugged NyQuil. Slept.

The next morning, I had to be at church for a 10:00 am RCIA/Vigil rehearsal. I practiced The Exultet. I sounded like Paul Robeson singing “Old Man River.” But at least I was hitting (sort of) the right notes. As the day wore on, my normal voice returned – mostly. It wasn’t at 100%, but it would be close enough. Or so I hoped.

That afternoon, I tried to rest, drink tea, slurp apple juice, and think melodious thoughts.

I fiddled with my Vigil homily some more, practiced the Exultet some more, and then said, “That’s it. Stick a fork in me. I’m done.” I showered and changed and headed off to the parish.

My pastor, his voice all-but-gone, whispered: “You’re preaching,” as he staggered into the sacristy before the liturgy.

Then, before I knew it, it began, at 7:30 sharp, with a ball of fire.

I lit the candle and raised it and sang: “Christ, our light…” And, to my astonishment, it wasn’t horrible. Candles were lit. The silence was deafening. And beautiful.

I inched my way down the center aisle and stopped again and lifted the candle and managed to find the next key for “Christ, our light…” The light spread. And then the head altar server rushed up behind me and whispered: “Fr. Passenant says wait until all the candles are lit before you do the third one…” I glanced around. Only about a fourth of the church candles were lit. Uh oh.

I walked. Slowly. Up. The. Aisle. And finally I reached the altar rail and turned around and waited to see more candles lit. And waited. And waited. The organist up in the choir loft thought I’d forgotten I had to do it a third time, so he gently intoned the notes for me. I sighed. And sang once more: “Christ, our light…”

Thanks be to God.

I’d made it that far. With help from the head altar server, I hoisted the candle into its stand and prepared to sing the The Exultet.

After kneeling for a blessing from the pastor, I took the thurible, incensed the candle – and got a massive belching cloud of incense in my face. At that particular moment, of course, every last ounce of moisture had completely vanished from within the cavity of my mouth. What was left was a vast Sahara with a tongue. And now, unfortunately, smoke.

I gasped, swallowed, forced my tongue to create something resembling moisture, and made my way up the stairs to the pulpit. And I took a deep breath. And began.

“Rejoice, heavenly powers…”

It started. It stayed on key. It rolled. A few notes were off. It was lower than I had practiced it. But it was all there. And it was comprehensible. And it wasn’t awful.

I won’t be the Fourth Tenor, and the Met hasn’t called with any offers. But I didn’t embarrass myself. (Afterward, people were very kind and appreciative – maybe it was because I had gone around before mass whispering to several people, “Pray for the deacon…”)

And then it was over and most of my work was done.

Until the gospel and my late, last minute homily. If nothing else, at least it was brief!

The mass concluded around 10:00 pm with the “Hallelujah Chorus” – complete with trumpets! – and a reception for the newly baptized in the church hall.

My wife gave me a congratulatory hug after and pronounced everything “wonderful” – she knew what I needed to hear – and as we headed home I thought to myself: “I wonder if I should prepare a homily for Sunday…”

Given the events of the last two days, and the overall awful health of every man in the rectory, I figured that was probably a good idea. I was too tired to do anything that night, so I put it off until the next morning.

Which, it turns out, arrived a lot sooner than I expected. After a quick shower, I poured a cup of coffee and stumbled into my home office around 7:00 am and clicked on the computer to see what I could come up with – or revise – from the previous night. I d
id a little cutting and pasting and rearranging and read over the scripture and wove in a little something about Mikhail Gorbachev, and came up with a serviceable six minute reflection. I practiced it once, to work out the kinks, and then headed to church around 9:30 for the 10:00 am mass.

As I expected, the first words out of my pastor’s mouth were a barely audible: “You’re preaching.”

And that was how my Easter Sunday began.

Our parish was packed – SRO at every mass (and our church seats 900, so we were easily accommodating 1200-1400). At 11:30 and 1:15 pm, they poured out the front doors and onto the sidewalk. We set up extra communion stations in the vestibule. It was incredible.

I finally got home around 2:45 pm – and crashed.

It is too soon to say what any of it meant, or how it made me feel. “Delirious,” “humbled,” “giddy,” “exhausted,” “awed,” “thrilled,” “moved,” “grateful” all come to mind.

But there is this: I survived my first Triduum as deacon. I didn’t drop the candle. I sang the Exultet. I preached. I didn’t fall on my face.

The miracles of Easter continue.

Alleluia.