The Easters of my childhood were not particularly noteworthy. I remember church choirs singing magnificent music; I remember lilies and candy and new patent leather shoes. But little, certainly, that was spiritual.

Over time, Easter nearly disappeared from my life. Then, miraculously, I found my way into the Catholic Church and discovered an entirely new dimension to this time of year.

For most of my adult years, as a non-denominational Christian, I never got the idea of Lent. Giving up chocolate for God, as my Catholic in-laws had done, seemed quaint but exceedingly artificial. I felt no obligation to pick some random item to do without.

This year, however, as I've gradually begun to experience the Catholic faith, I decided to give it a try, though I had no idea what I'd give up. Fortunately, as the season neared, I heard someone declare they were going without Diet Coke because they loved it more than anything.

I was in awe. My addiction is to Diet Squirt, a holdover from childhood when my grandfather was a Squirt executive and their home was sprinkled with the company's mascot, the little blond kid in green. It was a passion so strong that I had trepidation about my success at going without it, but I went ahead and put my favorite drink on my Lenten list. And quickly said a prayer.

It's funny how symbols take on meaning. One day a flower is just a flower in a field, and the next --- selected by a lover, dried and kept near --- its value is beyond compare. Who knew soda could have deep significance? Yet it did. Every time I opened the refrigerator those cans stared up at me; I could almost see their tongues sticking out.

But those unopened sodas served as a reminder of sacrifice. I had no illusion I was doing anything noble. No starving child was fed as a result. It was just a small, but constant, nudge to think of God. And the one who died in my place. He gave up his very life for me, and there I was, struggling to do without something so entirely insignificant. It was humbling, as was all of Holy Week.

As Holy Thursday closed in, it struck me that, in my journey into the church, I had voraciously read up on all things Catholic, yet I'd somehow skipped its Easter traditions. Easter had just passed when I first stumbled into my parish, which meant that a year later I headed into Holy Week without much real idea of what lay ahead.

Being in the choir had diverted my focus as I struggled to learn 25 pieces of music we were singing at five services over four days. I knew there was a foot washing, something with the cross, and baptisms. But what I experienced was not what I expected. Even now, remarkable images fill my head, and deep feelings stir my heart.

There was pageantry. There were powerful readings. There were humble foot washings and candlelit processions. There was the remarkable sight of our bishop and priest on the floor of a room knelt in prayer, as if we were witnesses to the garden of Gethsemane itself. There was the surging flow as people came forward to kiss the cross, and of course, glorious music, baptisms and explosions of joy. They were moments when it seemed as if we touched the sacred, and I choked back tears as I was drawn closer to the presence of God.

From the dawn of man, we've mucked things up and deeply frustrated God. In his anger he nearly wiped us out with a flood. And he would've destroyed the faithless Israelites if Moses hadn't interceded. Time and again, those he loved turned away from him. And we're still at it.

Yet remarkably, God remains faithful. Why, I'll never understand. Why we're worth it. Why he never gives up. But I am grateful.

And it's with gratitude that this Easter will remain with me always, bathed in a beautiful, triumphant light. As the gift of Holy Week enveloped me, I had a small glimpse of heaven. Of its joy. Of the true meaning of life itself.

In return, I have nothing to offer God but my love. Thankfully, that's all he asks.

Marcia J. Galles is a parishioner at Blessed Junípero Serra Church, Camarillo.