As Catholics, Easter has always been an important time for my family. When we used to attend church, Sundays were counted down to the grand Easter Sunday.
It all began with Lazarus Sunday, when Lord Jesus Christ resurrected the dead man. Then followed the next Sunday, Palm Sunday, when our Lord Jesus Christ entered the holy city covered in palms.
On Palm Sunday, the traditions here turned into a strange competition of who would bring the largest and most beautiful palm branch to the church. When my mother was young, and religious traditions were stronger, and my grandmother had way more energy, the children would go with a huge branch full of twists and turns adorned with wild spring flowers that appeared around this time.
Even though one might not be connected to any religiosity, those flowers, reminiscent of paganism in some way, were undoubtedly a feast for the eyes of any being. Mainly because they were carried in the hands of children, who were as tall as the branches, and they often struggled to carry them in their small hands.
Arriving at the churchyard, the priest descending the stairs in his special vestments would bless those branches by sprinkling them with holy water. Then, in a procession that felt joyful but whose voices reciting nostalgic chants came out muted, the children, with their confused looks at the sounds emanating from those closed mouths, would hurriedly enter through the huge church door.
It was an “every man for himself” situation. Each was in a rush disguised as calm, trying to deposit their burdens as quickly as possible. Either that or risk standing there for over an hour holding a heavy bouquet of flowers. On that Sunday, upon leaving the church, there was always a family member waiting outside, and in true Portuguese fashion, a meeting would be promised that would never happen.
But Palm Sunday was merely a tiny anticipation for Easter Sunday. Easter Sunday was meticulously planned. New clothes were put on, or in case the godparents hadn’t given us the Easter cake yet, the best outfit one could find in the wardrobe was worn.
We headed to mass, which was always hurried. “Jesus has risen, hallelujah, hallelujah.” The sermon was little more than that. As soon as the priest headed for the sacristy, the crowd would rush out of the church in a frenzy, hopping into their cars and speeding off to their homes. Out came the priest, parishioners, and the sexton holding the cross. And then the Easter visit continued.
In a small village like mine, it seemed like there was a celebration in every house, and one could feel the joy around the place. On the stairs, along the paths, at the small gates, and even at the humblest doors, mantles of flowers, laurel, or olive branches were laid out. On Palm Sunday, each household competed to show who had more skill in decorating their home to welcome Jesus on the cross. There was a buzz until the bell rang, announcing that the priest and Jesus nailed to that cross were about to enter our homes.
As soon as we spotted the red vestments of the sexton, Father Manuel — who always had my affection — and the children behind them, we all put on our most serious faces. Jesus entered our house, even if in a harrowing situation. We all kissed that little figure, said hallelujah, and in a somewhat awkward gesture, one of the children stepped forward to collect an envelope with money.
Every year in my house, the contents of that envelope led to disputes. Some years were more heated than others. Sometimes my father disagreed with giving any money at all, sometimes it was my mother saying it was too little. Ultimately, the envelope always went with a note, some years better than others. But that little dispute between my parents became a tradition in itself.
Over time, and with our influence against Catholicism, the traditions my parents loved so much began to fade away. They gradually stopped attending mass and going to parish choir rehearsals, and as such, the Easter visit started to see that door closed.
I think they enjoyed the activity itself as a family when we were all young. And now, with more years upon them, I think they don’t want to be the image of those older people who showed up there abandoned, without the company of their children. Or perhaps their beliefs have also faded. I don’t know. Maybe it is both.
I also know that some disputes with local people have made them dislike certain people entering through that door anymore. However, even though that tradition was so important, it didn’t override what today is.
Every Monday after Easter, my mother’s family follows the centuries-old tradition of heading to a small hill that separates our two villages.
On top of that small hill, today we celebrate Our Lady of Guidance. I admit my ignorance here, for I do not understand the thousand and one versions that exist in Catholicism of the mother of Jesus Christ. I believe that not even they understand it, but rather, much more ancient traditions linked to the end of winter have been appropriated by others.
A procession leaves from my mother’s village, which used to be immense. All families, young adults, children, and elders follow behind a tall float adorned with beautiful flowers surrounding the small statue of Our Lady of Guidance in her purple mantle.
The procession was and continues to be done rain or shine. However, it’s on days with heavy rain like today that the strange strength of tradition is found. Part of the road is not paved but rather made of muddy and steep dirt paths. While people wear their finest clothes, they do so by filling their feet with mud and being hit by jars of cold rainwater coming from everywhere, driven by the gusts of wind on top of the hill where the small stone chapel stands.
And I, not being there, can picture this strange feast.
The ground of earth and stones was placed the previous week to cushion the falling water. The sacrifice of those men who, after kilometers of climbing a hill, now face a muddy territory while skillfully and with wasted strength, they lift on their shoulders the float of a saint, also soaked by the falling rain.
And of course, further back, those who don’t want to miss the party but don’t want to get wet and catch useless colds go by car, ruining the scene once and for all. Every year, cars are stuck in the mud and stones, either going up or down. But it’s on the descent that everything gets complicated. Every rainy year, cars can’t brake properly, scraping against the rocks or getting stuck in the mud without being able to get out. Whoever comes behind will have to figure out what to do — either stay or leave by walking — because nobody’s leaving there any time soon.
Along with the drums and off-key singing coming from the stage later in the afternoon, and clearly with the drunken men gathering in the improvised taverns, there’s the cacophony of car horns from those who either want to leave or arrive at the festivity.
As for my family, religion is, I believe, an excuse for the obvious: gathering around a wooden table behind the stage where the Eucharist was celebrated, and everyone would eat. That’s the real feast.
As always, extra tables are brought because there are no tables to accommodate so many people. Being the good Portuguese that we are, nobody shows up there with sandwiches in their pockets, chocolates, or pieces of fruit. That’s for those who don’t like to eat.
You go there prepared for what it should be. There are big pots. Some have grilled pork and strips of pork; others have rice, and clearly, there’s always that huge pot with white beans and tripe. Besides the rain, there are jugs of homemade wine to wash it all down. And as always, there’s one plate too many, one too many knives and forks, too much bread and cakes that could feed thirty or forty people, even though we’re no more than twenty.
This kind of picnic is done with great joy when it's sunny. But sadness can happen when the weather forecast promises rain, thunderstorms, and a bone-chilling cold.
I always believe no one will be foolish enough to go there. But my convictions that they only go there for the food are shattered when, even with rain, mass happens. And even with rain and cold, my mother is there now, with an umbrella, marking her presence. And I believe even my grandfather, in his nineties, doesn’t want to miss it.
Maybe I should go there too, leave behind the romanticism of these words and even in my lonely atheism, go there, walk around the chapel with my mother, and accompany her in her belief that some higher being is here to guide us.
If this will make her happy, I leave you for now, and I’ll return next time, certainly with a fuller belly of good things.
Hello, I’m Araci, a female writer from Portugal. Thank you so much for reading me.
Your support is fundamental so I can continue writing. As such, If you have enjoyed this article, maybe you would like to buy me a “coffee” here:
Thank you for recounting these important family traditions and religio-cultural stories. It reminds me of when I was young and it was the 24th of December and my family celebrated with a feast and then my mother and I went to midnight mass. Over the years and as I intentionally left my Catholic life behind, those celebrations no longer happened. But I still remember them with love.