Easter Sunday by the seashore
We had plans to go to the beach early this Easter morning, for a self-cobbled sunrise service to celebrate a risen Jesus. To remember the empty tomb and to celebrate his victory over death and the grave. Instead, my eyes blink open to tumbles of footsteps and chatter as the sun sneaks its way up over the horizon. I am reminded that I would in all likelihood not have been one of those women first at the tomb, I have never been a morning person and motherhood has exhausted me to the point of no return, apparently.
I pour myself a mug of coffee with a splash of milk, and throw on a sweatshirt to ward against the early April chill. I sit on the front porch and try to read Breuggeman, but my mind flits and refuses to settle into the depth of his words. I have grown so used to a flickering newsfeed, a scrolling endless stream of pictures and clips and bite-sized truth that I find it difficult to sit down for a full meal. Putting my book down, I cup my mug and thank Jesus for the blue sky and bright promise stretched wide over the horizon. Until I hear a loud thud and a screaming Isaiah, who has fallen off the side of the couch he has been clambering over all morning. He is fine, just insistent on his mommy and his pacifier, a habit I know needs breaking soon but I have been putting off because I can do hard things but taking my children’s pacifiers has not historically been one of them.
Even nearly six hours away from Atlanta, my phone dings with texts from the girl who lives with us and is watching Maverick, from boys who want us to drive them to Easter service even though we already discussed our vacation and how we wouldn’t be there this Sunday in-depth multiple times. Life spins ordinary: bagels and cream cheese smeared on the counter, and all six children gather around the only charged Kindle to take turns playing games. There are no Easter outfits this year, no egg hunts or baskets or the usual trappings to remind us of this Holy morning and the hope that rises with the Son.
Adam makes eggs benedict for the adults, and I get the speaker to put on Easter music. The boys put on classic rock instead, and I go with it. Ordinary, I suppose, will be the marker for our days, holy or not. But aren’t they all holy? Days strung together like rosary beads reminding us to pray unceasingly, to thank Him for music and dirty diapers and for fresh starts and mornings spent with friends. Easter means new beginnings and courage where we once trembled in fear. It means ragtag unlikely disciples infused with a fresh dose of everything we need to face ordinary days in the light of freedom and grace.
