It is Easter weekend and for once I'm ahead of the curve, making my sumptuous breakfast casserole before 10pm. This prep is one of the few things I do traditionally for Easter and Christmas other than sing. It's not a high holy day if I'm not singing, at least to my mind.
It helps that the prep is only cutting, shredding, and mixing. A trained monkey can do that. Right now, I'm waiting for the microwave sausage links to cool enough for me to cut them up. My fingers are already singed by my impatience in not waiting for the first batch to cool. I've got an arm's length of things to do including dying my mother's hair and hitting the supermarket for her bloody fruit boats and I still want to get 2500 words written today.
I enjoy making the casserole though, enjoy the eating of it more, and enjoy watching others enjoy the eating of it even more than that. As I've noted here before, my church choir sings for all three Easter Sunday services and so we arrange a breakfast for the music community to enjoy in between services. Many of us contribute, still more set up and clean up – often many of the same people doing it all. I make casserole and over the years, I've learned to make two as the first is practically inhaled before I can get the foil off the top, leaving none for those people still attending service and worse, no reason to compliment me on my meager skills, though that's somewhat less important, I guess.
It's a long morning.
This is also one of the rarer times when my latent mothering genes rear up and, to make things oh so much more fun, they then mate with my pathological need to please along with my barely suppressed need do everything exactly right or not at all. See? There's a reason I don't do this stuff.
It's a beautiful Easter weekend. We haven't had good weather for Easter in years, and I'm reveling in it, even if I'm just watching it pass by my window as I work. Hollis keeps jumping into and out of the window behind my desk, bumping heads with me as she passes by. There's sausage to cut, cheese to shred, hair to dye, words to write, and glory waiting on the horizon.
Sunday is on its way.
On Easter morning, I think most of Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, those brave women who set out before dawn to bathe and consecrate the body of Jesus. All Christ's followers and friends had spent a fearsome two nights since the Crucifixion of Christ, frightened and devastated, scared they would be next, fearing to believe in the promises their beloved Master had given them. That He would return. That they would see Him again. And then these brave, devoted women struck out from the break of day to be there for Him as they were there at the cross. And oh my, were they rewarded for their faithfulness.
And when the resurrection story is read from scripture tomorrow morning, I'll hear Mary's voice as I do every Easter morning – Rabboni! – the shock, the awe, the sheer joy at seeing the one she loved so much before her again.
An egg casserole cannot compare to that. But I faithfully make it, preparing food to feed those who have risen at dawn to serve their Master. We come as we do every year to stand and sing and eat and praise and worship our Savior, He who has risen from the dead. He who is coming again.