“It is a serious thing just to be alive
on this fresh morning, in this broken world.”
Along with the rest of the world, our plans for Easter this year have had to be abandoned. This was to be a special Easter. My baby girl was having a special birthday on the 11th April, the Saturday of Easter. She was born four days before Good Friday and often since then, Easter has been around her birthday.
But now 60 years later (can I possibly be that old?) I had booked a cottage in one of the wine-growing regions for us.
My daughter, her two sons and girlfriends (if they wished) would all sally forth on Good Friday, spend three nights there and then head back home. We would spend our days wandering the vineyards and sampling the wines. We have a built-in driver as my daughter doesn’t drink. Does she know what she is missing?
The boys, now really young men, are both good cooks so those duties would be spread amongst us. I had told myself that for one breakfast I would make them Fairy Bread aka French Toast. As little boys, they loved my “Fairy Bread” and nobody else was allowed to make it. But now instead of just lemon juice and sugar, I would serve it with stewed apples, banana, blueberries and maple syrup. But this time, the only one who had that breakfast was me, eaten alone at the dining table at home.
I then got to thinking about other Easters in this long life.
When I was growing up in London all those years ago, Easter was an important time in our calendar. We, three girls, went to church in our new clothes to celebrate Easter but of course, Mother, who was Jewish, didn’t accompany us. And I am not sure why Father didn’t come, but he didn’t. Friday service was always very solemn and left us in a sombre mood for the rest of the day.
But we all looked forward to the Easter Parade on Easter Sunday. On this day most Londoners congregated in Hyde Park to see ‘the toffs’ parading in their finery. What excitement for three young girls.
Even as far back as the middle ages, many cultures would strut their new finery on their way to church or visiting friends on this Sunday. A more spiritual slant is that this ritual represents the procession that followed Christ carrying the cross.
To read the rest of this post, click here
There was the awful Easter in 2014 when somebody set fire to the storage area containing my worldly goods.
An arsonist was caught on camera entering the facility and when charged, claimed innocence. Luckily the things I lost were replaceable, although unfortunately/stupidly I had forgotten to insure the stored-goods. You can read more of this here.
There was a memorable Easter spent on the French Riviera in an unheated caravan. Great memories of fun and laughter; another Easter with my parents and our baby daughter and yet more when our family was increased by the birth of a son.
And so many other memories of Easters spent around the world; until 1998 with my DYS (Dashing Young Scotsman) who by 1998 while still dashing, was no longer young and my children and then with their children. Then several years here in New Zealand without him but with family and friends, and a few short years with my Late Love, The Architect. Most Easters has been memorable in one way or another and all sit safely in my Suitcase of Memories (thank you Patti, of A New Day Dawns) to be taken out and enjoyed all over again.
But this Easter will surely go down in history as the strangest of all.
“Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am
to be blessed.”
And a final quote from Pope John Paul 11
“Do not abandon yourselves to despair.
We are the Easter people and hallelujah is our song.”