I awoke Easter Sunday to a decision I’d purposely put off: do I go to church or no? Despite 20-plus years of Catholic school and a decidedly Irish-Catholic upbringing, I hadn’t been in years. The reasons are too many to visit in this space, but the choice remained. My head was foggy from a Saturday evening spent sampling the latest locally-brewed IPA, easing acceptance of my initial impulse to stay in bed. A call from another “retired” Catholic friend and a shard of morning sunshine on my pillow changed my mind. I showered and dressed with military precision and found a parking spot near the church only 15 minutes into the Mass. As I exited the car, a pretty girl in a sundress passed by. I thought to offer to escort her to the service, but failed to seize the moment. Regret — it’s better than guilt, I guess. I downed my coffee and joined my friends on the patio of the church. You’ve got to camp out to get seats on Easter Sunday — a sacrifice, needless to say, I never considered making. We stood outside, a group of former altar boys and May procession girls, trying hard to be pious but failing miserably in the same way we had as kids. Jokes whispered, lips bitten in restraint. Only an angry 400-pound nun with a ruler was missing. Shortly after Mass, we gathered for an Easter celebration at the home of friends. We drank beer, sampled a bevy of appetizers (including something called “cheeseburger dip”), drank more beer, and enjoyed another afternoon of relentless Southern California sunshine. As we sat around the table in the yard, we recounted an incident during the morning’s Mass that called for a discussion of protocol: (When the “Host” is accidentally dropped, who should pick it up and what should they do with it? Despite more than 100 collective years of Catholic schooling logged amongst our group, the answer was unclear.) Sometime during the fifth retelling of this uncomfortable moment, it happened. Initially, I thought I was just dizzy, but after a quick glance around the table it became clear: The earth was quaking. It’s unsettling when the earth is unsettling. Experiencing the phenomena outside added a level of surrealism — no rattling dishes, no clanking silverware, no swaying blinds to concentrate on — only the realization that solid ground was no longer solid. Terra firma no more. No panic, no fear, no freak outs — just a generous slice of humble pie. A stark reminder that some things will always remain out of our control. Call it God, call it nature, call it plate tectonics — it’s all semantics anyway. Maybe that’s why I showed up at church. Not out of fear, guilt or dogmatic responsibility, but a subconscious desire to be reminded of the scope of my being.