I had all sorts of plans for this weekend. Going to the beach with the kids, dying Easter eggs... the one by church is out of stock, but I want to see if any of the other Christian stores have “Resurrection Eggs” left.
Except I can’t. Not now. Not after the Maundy Thursday service last night.
It isn’t Easter.
I love how the liturgy marks time. I am home, going about my business. The diaper changes never stop, and neither do the meals. Toddlers and nursing mothers really shouldn’t fast.
The feeding of the five-thousand, and the four-thousand, and the three-thousand... it all makes a little more sense now with a big family. They set aside the constant, urgent needs of daily life to listen to his teachings. And he, the bread from heaven, gave them physical food to feed their physical bodies.
But it is on this day that the bread from heaven is broken, and I keenly feel the incongruity as I go about my business, while Christ prays at Gesthemane, and others kneel in the darkened church, to watch with him one hour.
Somehow, terribly, life went on there in Jerusalem, as he wept and prayed. Babies cried and nursed and burped, toddlers squirmed and ran and laughed and fought as he was scourged and mocked and tried.
Life goes on here as well, and that is the common thread that draws me there. I am in Anaheim, 2006, I am in Jerusalem, 30 AD. I am everywhere that believers gather and remember this tremblesome week.
Sunday afternoon, I will pull out the brightly colored board books, and perhaps we will decorate eggs. But now is not a child-friendly time, and now we are all children squirming beneath the weight of it all. And so we go about our business, and do what we must do, be it running and giggling, or running errands, shushing ourselves all the while lest we break the holy stillness.