Easter Murcia
A bustle of people gathered at the door of San Nicolás, from where he left at 7:00 p.m.
It happened in an instant, in just a few seconds that seemed eternal to many, after two years of sad and tragic waiting. It was then that the pulse of the city, snatched by the first spring sun after so many days of rain, stopped. Seven o’clock in the afternoon.
A hustle and bustle of people gathered at the door of San Nicolás, in whose parish the shelves entered drop by drop, by rigorous shift and as a health precaution. A few motionless sparrows perched on the eaves of the temple; the clouds crystallized their water, as always cruel and threatening at Easter. And this one was not going to be less. But you could savor that unique light, that of Jorge Guillén’s Canticle, which Murcia treasures.
The din of motors in traffic jams seemed to die down. Social networks burned with Nazarene posture. Some thought they felt that even the air became dense, at least heavier when contemplating the door, still locked, of the parish.
Then it happened. He trembled the tower clock seven times and a creak of hinges announced that this time, after two years without savoring how the incense captivates the orange blossoms of Murcian April, the processions once again curdled the most Nazarene streets with tradition.
The dull drums peeled off, along with the moan of the jokes, the crust of uncertainty that gripped so many brothers. Before, although only for the shelves that waited restlessly inside, the traditional cry that inaugurates the Holy Week every year was heard again. It was Antonio Zamora, his voice breaking, who announced: “Procession to the street!” Spectacular.
Many remembered the immense president Ángel Galiano, whose shelf presided over the throne of his Christ, adorned as he liked, with blue roses. And his son, faithful continuator of such a great Nazarene lineage, rightly paid him that tribute that so many applauded.
The real normal
And the street, because there have been twenty-four months of Nazarene confinement, was bursting at the seams, like so many streets pregnant with candy: hubbub of candy carts; clumsy children balloons to heaven; shouting of gypsies with bracelets like generals’ medals, charging chairs, that today not one was left unsold despite its astronomical price; packets of steaming meat pies and bags sprinkled with frost from cans of the official drink of Holy Week: the cool Estrella; A stir of Murcians from here to there, grandparents enjoying with their grandchildren those seats that they never thought to share… Good Friday of Dolores in Murcia.
The Brotherhood of Amparo not only inaugurated the Passion this Friday as we understand it, which is marked by joy and bars full of parishioners, because they know that this story ends well. El Amparo also launched the Holy Week of authentic normality, which has nothing new other than the dozens of little ones who did not remember, because two years ago the Covid treacherously deprived us of it, what is a Nazarene giving out candy.
That’s why many, poor things, cried scared. And his crying joined that of his elders, who also couldn’t hold back their tears when remembering how many Murcians have gone to the Blue Sky of Amparo, as cases in the most absolute loneliness, this devastating pandemic. Also tied to the front of the thrones were the shelves of Joaquín Alix, ‘Pipo’, and Pablo Portillo, along with his Christ of the great Power that already embraces him in Glory.
The streets were once again populated with freshly ironed blue tunics, starched petticoats and stockings, butler’s staffs and crosses, aromas of that incipient orange blossom that, like a resounding business card, hoists spring.
For this reason, when the first step of the Angel of the Passion, that of Joaquín Roses who gave the first touch to a stage this year, began his penance station, the painful way was truly open. And many enjoyed it, because the ghost of contagion still hangs over everyone, as if this procession were the last.
an enlightened encounter
The parade advances with cadence until it enters the asphalt belly of the city. The rows full of faithful become a tableau of sensations and sighs, of excited little ones who reach out their hands to the penitent, of old people who remember those times when they were children and yearn for those parents who already got a password for Heaven.
Entire families forget their concerns, perhaps their misgivings about the pandemic, to enjoy the procession that vibrates as it crosses the Cathedral. There was only one magical moment left, when the parade returned victorious to San Nicolás. That square, which seems to widen to welcome the hundreds of Murcians congregated, witnessed the encounter between the Mother and the Son, again paralyzing the pulse of the city. If there were no lanterns no one would have noticed. Because the lights of the cell phones when taking pictures lit up the entire neighborhood and not a few tears.
At that precise moment, almost everyone who saw the surrendered figure of Christ pass by felt identified with the suffering of so many who were not lucky enough to overcome the evil virus and get excited again at the passage of a throne. I am about to write that the city once again felt that the worst, this time, has already passed.
The procession ran like life, between notes of sorrowful march sometimes, with the airy aroma of alhábega others. But there, everyone, inside or outside the ranks of the brotherhood, rediscovered their memories, in so many cases tinged with sorrow after losing someone they loved. Or for feeling lucky to savor again a few hours of Nazarene tradition that, that is the only thing to thank the virus, they valued more than ever in all their lives.
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