Three solid knocks rouse me to find the Easter bunny, festooned with fedora and an elbow tattoo of Cuba, smelling ever-so-slightly of pre-breakfast cigarette. He passes me the royal blue (not navy nor robin egg, nope) paper bag and with a peck on the cheek and a “Happy Easter!” he’s on to his next stop, hippity-hopping back down the hall.
I break into a gruff, squinting grin, scratching three days of whiskers and running a hand through pillow-casualty hair, zombie-shuffling back to my bed, when I peek to see what’s hiding below the … <GASP> GREEN PLASTIC GRASS! I’m eight years old and can’t wait to tear into my sugar bomb breakfast.
Russell Stover. M&Ms. SKITTLES! Lord, how long has it been since I’ve had a SKITTLE?! I know Mom LOVES ‘em, which may be why I haven’t partaken in years—I always tried to give mine to her, but you have to SNEAK ‘em to her. She rarely takes anything like that willingly.
But the magic? The time machine that hurls me back to three-service Sundays in brand new penny loafers with the showroom shine? Matching ties with Dad with knots as big as yer head? Endless hair-fixin’ sessions, me fully-dressed for church, seated on the toilet while Momma brushed and fluffed my hair, curling iron at the ready, covering my face with her precious hand while blasting my head into helmet with White Rain aerosol?
Plastic eggs filled with jelly beans.
Ew. I just bit into a black one. Ack. I was paying more attention to the story than I was the breakfast: a mistake I will not make again. <shudder> I quickly scarf a pink one to rid my mouth of the putrescence.
Oh, those plastic eggs—they could hold almost ANYTHING. It coulda been jelly beans, MONEY, or, if you were REALLY lucky, Aunt Robbie or some other favorite lady of the church KNEW your heart and would stuff that sucker with Reese’s. You always knew with one shake how rich the jackpot would be: the smaller the rattle, the better the prize. But kids, y’all know that treasure only lasted the first go ‘round of egg hunt. Subsequent gather and re-hides always left the hollow plastic hulls: the bright color promising an easy find, but we knew each other too well to expect the reward to be so grand on second discovery. Their lightness and lack of rattle-racket confirmed our suspicions: empty.
Lord, bless the Pastor for trying to teach us chocolate-throttled pastel-laden sugar spawn for the remaining 43 minutes of Easter Sunday service. We were nigh unto vibrating with excitement and most of us had been munching maltodextrin since we hit the ground running, many since before the story of the Son broke the horizon that day.
But I’ll guarantee you this much: every one of those babies would know to hold up three sticky fingers, usually because their mouths were full, to let you know how long it took for the Savior to rise again. “And what did they find when they visited the tomb on the third day?” Through mouths with chocolate smeared up to nose and down to chin, a sweet swallow to clear their mouths to answer: “Rolled away!”
This morning I am grateful for the recollections of the sweet life laid before me by my Austin Creek Church family and for the new friends that spark these precious memories of faith. Happy Easter. He is risen. Love y’all.