It’s Tuesday evening of Holy Week before I remember.
We haven’t dyed our eggs yet.
We are on our way home from music lessons, and I glance in the mirror at my boys as I realize. It’s almost Easter. Do I really want to go there this late in the game? Waste all those eggs for a few moments of fun?
This is the first year they haven’t asked.
Are they too old for such things now?
The thought makes me a little sad as I remember our traditions. The cousins used to hide the plastic eggs for them after Easter dinner. Chubby legs would toddle from bush to bush, peeking in secret places for hidden treasure.
Now their cousins are off to college. And there are no more small ones in the family.
Perhaps it’s time to start new traditions.
The thought is lost in traffic and chores and all the beauty that goes into keeping this household.
But she peeks at me from behind the trees this morning.
I grab my camera and stand on the back deck in the blue light of dawn. So beautiful. At first my head is full of aperture and shutter speed and ISO. How best to capture?
I am staring at her through this viewfinder when the beauty penetrates my heart. I lower the camera. See with my eyes.
And I remember.
His bent head in the garden. Broken heart, bent knees.
In the shadow of the nearly full moon this morning, as my breath escaped in tendrils released to the atmosphere…The sorrow of Holy Week struck me.
And I longed for Sunday.
It is for joy that He gave up His life. That we may live to the full.
Light begins to creep and her silver face grows dim. But my heart is imprinted with all she has seen.
I slip back inside. Put up the camera. Look in the fridge.
I’m going to have to buy more eggs.