She stumbled into the kitchen for a drink and caught me red-handed. I thought she was asleep. Thought they were all asleep as I tidied up the counter and swept away the last crumbs of dinner.
That’s when I’d spotted it- that dried up centerpiece that had squatted silent in the middle of our table since Lent’s beginning. It seemed only practical to trash the branches and replace the sorry limbs with a springtime bouquet. Tulips, perhaps.
Until she walked in. Fly-away curls tousled from sleep, eyes open just wide enough to grope her way to the sink, she squinted at me and squealed. Squealed loud enough to wake every last one of my finally quiet clan.
She couldn't seem to find a glass for water, her half-asleep hands opening the wrong cupboard and grabbing a cereal bowl instead. Yet through those slitted baby blues, she’d spied the tree. And the garbage can.
You can’t throw away the Easter tree, she said as she abandoned her quest for water and spun to face me.
I felt like Fern's poor father in Charlotte's Web, confused and slightly annoyed by this self-appointed rescuer in purple pajamas.
I felt like Fern's poor father in Charlotte's Web, confused and slightly annoyed by this self-appointed rescuer in purple pajamas.
But, honey, these branches are brittle and breaking. They were dead from the start. If we bump them, they’re going to make a mess all over the table.
She stood, silent. Blinking. Trying to fish for a reply in her groggy mind.
Easter’s not over, she said finally replied. And then spun on her fuzzy-stockinged-feet and padded out of the kitchen. She tripped over her own tired feet in the hallway and then turned once more to look at me, the tree killer still standing dead branches in hand.
That’s why I opened all those eggs, Mom. To remind us of the empty tomb.
I stared at the splintery limbs, each adorned with a strand of fading blue yarn and a plastic pastel egg, opened wide.
Easter’s not over.
Why hadn't I thought of that?
I carried the straggly tree back to the kitchen table and set it down gently.
Who was I to covet silken tulips over empty eggs?
For now, we’d leave the fragile limbs in the place where they'd always been.
Leave them in that place where our plates overflow and words spill fast and frantic. In that place where fourteen feet cram close and seven lips speak loud, and knuckles rap drumbeats and silverware clanks steady.
Because if we let it, Easter invades the very heart of our home.
And empty eggs belong in that place where bodies are nourished and souls are fed and prayers are uttered and tales are told.
Because when we really stop to think about it, without that empty tomb all this clanging and crying, prattling and praising would be mere noise. This table where we gather would be filled with food but empty of love, crammed with bodies but devoid of life.
And isn’t this what it means to live as Easter People? To live full lives because of an empty tomb. To find Him here, in the rattle and routine of our days because He was not there, behind the stone on Easter morning.
The clock read midnight and my bones cried for sleep, so I reached for the kitchen lights, left the tree sitting in darkness.
But not this home. This home is radiant with Light.
-Ephesians 3:14-19
Have you spotted Jesus outside of that empty tomb? Maybe in an empty basket of laundry or a lingering near a not-so-empty sink of dishes? I'd love to hear about where you've seen Him lately. Holy in the humdrum? Glory in the grit? Do share!
Just post a comment and you just may be the happy recipient of this marvelous new book. I'll be giving it away on Friday! Check out yesterday's post for all the details!
Just post a comment and you just may be the happy recipient of this marvelous new book. I'll be giving it away on Friday! Check out yesterday's post for all the details!
Happily linking with lovely Ann
and Tracy at Winsome Wednesdays
And Jennifer at Getting Down With Jesus
