Holy Weekend Quirks

My blog has been abysmal of late. I’m sorry. I can’t promise any improvement in the immediate future, but I will post a few things now, for posterity’s sake.

Easter, as I’ve mentioned before, is my favorite holiday. It’s the one most important to me as a Christian, and, in the Northeast United States where we live, it’s poetically situated at a crucial juncture: The time between the cold, dark winter and the warm, sunny spring. Easter is fresh and green and full of promise, like the season of blossoms it precedes.

This Easter, my celebratory preparations were somewhat curtailed by the fundraising banquet I am largely responsible for planning. (The big event is 1 week from today, by the way. At this time next Tuesday, I should be most of the way back from the airport, transporting our guest speaker to the banquet facility.)

But despite my preoccupation, I paused to remember the death and resurrection of my Lord. The weekend was memorable for a few quirky variations of time-honored traditions:

Spanish Service

On Good Friday, Will and I took the kids to visit Grandma Noreen 2 hours away. Grandma (or “Gramma,” as it is spelled on that side of the family) is among the most thoughtful, accommodating people on the planet. She aims to please in every possible way. It’s impossible to dislike her. (I realize this declaration lands me among the 3% of married people worldwide who admire their mothers-in-law.)

When we arrived at Noreen’s house, she had prepared a multi-course Easter meal, with ham, mashed potatoes, corn, strawberry Jell-O salad, tossed salad, and nice, gooey birthday cake for dessert. (I’m sure I’m forgetting something that was on the table. The birthday cake was for Will and Ben’s birthdays—both a month away—but she didn’t want to miss her chance.)

We feasted in the mid-afternoon, napped while Gramma entertained the children, and then in the early evening I set out on my own to find a Good Friday service. I had checked the local paper for service listings, unsuccessfully. Noreen’s Internet service is unbearably slow. So I simply went looking for one. I got into our minivan, surveyed the small city for the nearest steeple, followed the skyline to the church doors, and quietly entered.

I found myself about 15 minutes late for a Mass offered entirely in Spanish. I decided to stay. I determined that it was the symbolic importance of my being there to acknowledge Christ’s suffering and death on the cross that mattered, not my complete comprehension of the language largely foreign to my English ears. I furtively glanced around the sanctuary. I appeared to be the only Caucasian person present. At first I worried that I might be unwelcome, even potentially threatening to people who might consider me a potential spy for immigration officials, scouting out the Holy Day services for people living and working illegally in a farm-dense area of the United States. Then I looked down at my bulging belly and decided I would not be deemed dangerous in my current state, 5 ½ months pregnant in a billowy black top, polyester maternity pants and thick-soled flip-flops (fitting footwear for an unseasonably warm April day).

It was a beautiful if somewhat surreal experience, prompting me to identify with Christians throughout the world observing the occasion.

Egg Surprise

On Holy Saturday, we headed back to A-Town and went straight to an Easter Egg Hunt hosted by friends of friends. It was a low-key affair with a mix of plastic, candy-filled eggs and real ones (the kind laid by chickens). The real eggs, though beautifully colored and glittered, turned out to be raw. The hostess had forgotten to hard-boil them. The inevitable occurred.

Flashy Outfit

On Easter Sunday, we enjoyed a leisurely start. Normally, I like to attend some kind of sunrise service, but with little kids (and a husband who prefers to sleep in), this preference is not practical. Plus, I needed to prepare some food for our second family feast that afternoon. So, I diced, chopped and shredded scalloped potatoes ingredients while the kids ambled downstairs, dug into Easter baskets and readied themselves for church (more or less independently).

Vi, in typical tween fashion, rejected the pretty floral dress I had selected for her, preferring a more subdued shirt/slacks combo my mother recently snagged for her on clearance. Ben settled on a checkered shirt with plain pants, rounding out his outfit with cowboy accessories of boots and a belt with a sizeable silver buckle. Pearl was picture-perfect in her coral linen tea-length dress, complete with a gauzy ribbon bow, white tights and “dancing shoes,” an outfit she’d worn to the Father-Daughter Valentine Dance a few weeks ago.

To accessorize, Pearl selected the fanciest necklace in her jewelry box: A string of tiny Christmas lights that flashes five colors at the press of a button. It was a moment of truth: Would I be one of those mothers who squelched spirit in favor of propriety? No! No, I would not. I let her wear the lights, and I let them flash. After all, both holidays are about the same guy/God.

Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed!