My twelve-year-old son woke us up early this morning, sneaking into our bedroom and whispering, "Happy Easter!" I love the fact that he still gets excited about Easter baskets and is sort of on the fence when it comes to the Easter Bunny. He doesn't take any chances.
So, we had chocolate for breakfast. Of course. What else would you eat on Easter morning? Then an Easter egg hunt.
After that, we put on our Easter bonnets and went to my wife's church. The whole family. I think that it was the first time we have all been together at a worship service since the pandemic began. Christmas time, we were under quarantine. So, it was kind of a miraculous moment, sitting in a pew with my wife and kids. (Disclaimer: we attended the service because the church practices social distancing and requires facemasks and does contact tracing. I am still very aware that we are in the MIDDLE of a pandemic, not at the tail end or out of a pandemic.)
Lunch at my family's house. Ham and cheese and Easter eggs and homemade Easter bread (the kind my mother used to make). And a long visit with my sisters. We haven't really been together since Thanksgiving, when I helped them put up their Christmas decorations. My sister, Rose, who has Down syndrome, is very confused all the time now. She suffers petit mal seizures every morning. There's no way to control them, and they have really affected her physically and mentally. I'm not really sure if she even knew who I was.
She smiles all the time. Is happy all the time. That was good to see. Another Easter miracle.
I ended the evening watching O Brother, Where Out There? Haven't seen that movie in years. I had forgotten how wonderful it was. The Coen brothers, George Clooney, and Homer. Three more Easter miracles.
Now, I'm thinking about the chaos of the coming week. Trying to prepare for it in my head. Lots of work ahead in the next five days.
The tomb is open and empty. Light has returned. There's ham and Easter bread in the fridge.
And Saint Marty got to hug his sister Rose today.
An Easter poem . . .
Easter Sunday
by: Martin Achatz
My mother made it on Holy Saturday
In her bowl as green as Easter grass.
She'd mix water, salt, sugar, flour,
Shortening and yeast, fold it
With her hands, over and over,
Until dough took shape, white
As my winter skin. Then she kneaded,
Pushed and pounded, picked it up,
Slammed it down on the kitchen table,
Made the room shake with violence,
Sounds like sledges and spikes,
Holy, Easter sounds. After she was done,
My mother left the bowl on the counter,
Draped with a towel. She waited
For the dough to leaven, the yeast
To work like prayer, make the dough
Rise higher and higher, swell, stretch
Like a pregnant womb. My mother
Returned, kneaded, punched
It into submission, broke
Its will, began the process anew.
As night fell, the dough rose and rose.
Some time after I went to bed,
My mother sliced loaves, and baked.
On Easter morning, I woke
My mother made it on Holy Saturday
In her bowl as green as Easter grass.
She'd mix water, salt, sugar, flour,
Shortening and yeast, fold it
With her hands, over and over,
Until dough took shape, white
As my winter skin. Then she kneaded,
Pushed and pounded, picked it up,
Slammed it down on the kitchen table,
Made the room shake with violence,
Sounds like sledges and spikes,
Holy, Easter sounds. After she was done,
My mother left the bowl on the counter,
Draped with a towel. She waited
For the dough to leaven, the yeast
To work like prayer, make the dough
Rise higher and higher, swell, stretch
Like a pregnant womb. My mother
Returned, kneaded, punched
It into submission, broke
Its will, began the process anew.
As night fell, the dough rose and rose.
Some time after I went to bed,
My mother sliced loaves, and baked.
On Easter morning, I woke
To the aroma of fresh bread.
Resurrection, sweet and warm
As the wren.
Resurrection, sweet and warm
As the wren.
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