Counting my blessings on Easter Sunday

 

Jacob and Eva today

For complicated reasons, I did not go to church this morning but watched online. The rest of the family went to the nine o’clock service and sat in the very front row with two couples who are their good friends and to whom I feel close. And one couple had their daughter, Eva, with them. Jacob and Eva have known each other all their lives—born two months apart—but
rarely see each other these days. For several years, we had an Easter tradition of brunch at the house following the nine o’clock service (a couple of years it was the sunrise service!). Covid called a two-year halt to that, so it was fun to see the two of them together again. And to

Jacob and Eva
2014

be with the adults.

Some year in between

I admit I got a little teary, the good kind of tears, seeing them all sitting in the front row. The Burtons have not been back to church in person since pandemic, so it was an occasion. They had worried about getting seats—the Easter services are always overflowing—so I laughed that they were in the front row. Hope our minister friend noticed. Even online, the service was lovely, the sermon good (“the worst is never the last” which sounds like a more intellectual way of saying what a physical therapist said to me not too long ago: “God’s got you!”).

The music was glorious (and would have been more so had I been sitting in church in person). The melody and words to so many old hymns are firmly fixed in my mind from childhood. I was never much of a singer (neither my dad nor I could carry a tune, but we sang heartily, making up for melody with volume) and now, with age, my singing voice is weak. But watching at home, I could sing along—and I did. They sang “Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia!” and another familiar one—my mind just went blank—and then the Hallelujah Chorus. I did not sing along with that but I was much impressed by a soprano in the choir who closed her music and sang from memory. She had a strong voice and pretty much carried those extremely high parts.

Everybody adjourned for brunch—a noisy, happy affair with several conversations going at once, but lots of fun. It was potluck and very good, though we repeated some of the dishes at a traditional mid-day dinner with Christian’s family. Different folks, but still lots of laughter.

There was some picture taking, and it provided, for me, the only sour note. Five or so years ago we had taken a picture of me with the girls who went to church this morning, so nothing would do but we duplicate it. Then there was a picture of me with the guys (including Jacob) and finally, one of me with one of the guys which again duplicated one from several years ago. I had taken care with my hair, fresh and clean, and I had on my new sunflower shirt (a tribute to Ukraine), so I smiled my way through the pictures. I have to say, defensively, I have never been photogenic: my grandfather used to tell my mom the only place he would hang her picture was in the barn because she took such a poor picture (parenting has changed, thank goodness). I think I inherited that mindset from my mom. For several years Bobbi Simms was half mother/half friend to me. She also as the kids said, “Told it like it is,” and she used to worry about why I never look as good in a picture as in real life.

Today’s pictures were pretty bad. I look like a pale but puffy old lady with wispy thin hair. Not at all how I feel or think of myself. I will only share one, but you’ll see the contrast between me and those vital women in the forties. Two resolves: I’m going to put on make-up more often, and I emailing my haircut person tonight.

I hope, if you celebrate, that your Easter was as full of blessings as mine. Remember, the worst is not the last. The ending is up to God.

The blahs—or feeling numb

Not feeling my perkiest this morning, so I stayed home and “went” to church on the computer. Sigh. Always makes me wish I was there in the richness of the University Christian Church sanctuary and the comfort of the congregation. It’s a joy to greet old friends on Sunday morning, and I missed that. A timely sermon, ”Possessed by Possessions,” on money, greed, wealth, affluenza—yes, the ministeer used that term. Timely because a dear friend had just this week predicted to me that the current sitting president will be re-elected in spite of his lies, deceit, cruelty, destruction of everything from international treaties to the environment. “It’s all about money,” she said. I guess I’m Pollyanna, but I could not live with myself if I supported someone like that because I thought it would make me rich. Besides, to my understanding, those who vote for the orange man because of their pocketbook are fooling themselves—the economy is not doing well. Indexes like job growth have slowed dramatically and the deficit is out the roof. But I digress.

Hymns draw me to church. I love to sing the old familiar hymns, and most of the words come to me from memory implanted in childhood. But these days they do away with the old familiar—Betty, my organist friend, won’t play “The Old Rugged Cross”—and they change either the words or melody. Not much is as frustrating as singing a strange hymn and realizing that the melody has other words, an older version my memory calls up. This morning the closing hymn was “Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee.” I waited with anticipation—but it was the wrong melody.

My organist friend is concerned at the changing nature of music she is asked to play at weddings. She was taught that only sacred music belongs in a sanctuary and was distressed recently when asked to play an Elton John song. My argument that music, like language, is an organic, growing, changing thing fell on deaf ears. And now I hear myself being as deaf about changing lyrics and melodies of my favorite hymns. Go figure.

My inspiration for the day: a 101-year-old woman, assisted living resident, who just published her first book of poetry. A fellow resident, her age, got her interested in attending some classes and pouf! She wrote a book. Would that it were that easy for all of us.

I used to watch “Restaurant Impossible” on the Food Network with fair regularity. Haven’t seen it in quite a while, so I don’t know if it’s gone away and come back or if I just haven’t happened on to it. But last night I watched back-to-back episodes—the first a black mother-and-daughter team in a family restaurant, and the second a Mexican restaurant. Robert Irvine pointed out that the mother and daughter were buying prepared things which ran up their costs. “You’re letting someone else do you prep work,” he thundered. And he showed them some great-looking twists on ordinary dishes. In the second episode, I couldn’t help noticing that when he was interacting with the owners, his hair was dark. But in narrative segments, with him alone, it was gray. I guess even chefs age.

Like the rest of the nation, I am numb with horror tonight. There’s so much to be said, but it’s all been said before—and to no avail. I weep for America, but I still also have faith that we can save our nation. It will be a slow rebuilding. But I read somewhere that the next election is not so much about who leads the country—it is about saving the soul of our country. I’m ready for that fight, and I will do whatever I can to save our country—and our planet.

Happy Sunday

Woke up in a weird mood this morning--don't mean to whine, but I felt anxious and my hip hurt. Got up and going, while Jacob slept soundly on--got the newspaper, which is a mental challenge for me these days, and darn near tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Way to go, Judith! But for some reason, the words to that old hymn, "This is My Father's World," kept echoing in my mind. A reassuring thought.
Got both Jacob and me ready for church, though the last minute preparations seem to take forever with Jacob. When I'm ready to walk out the door, he has to brush his teeth, brush his hair, put on his shoes--an endless process. Still we were a bit early for church, and I resolved to let the peace of the Lord wash over me. Not so easy with a nine-year-old who was fretting about finding his good buddy who was supposed to be in church for the first time. "This is My Father's World" was replaced in my mind by one of the hymns we sang, another favorite--"Have Thine Own Way, Lord." The sermon was on Moses and how we have to fail to succeed--which simply made me think, rather cynically, that it was my turn to succeed. And then I remembered the dear old friend, now gone, who asked bluntly, "Did you ever consider you've had as much success as you're supposed to have?" It's true. I've been so much more successful, with books published, recognitions and awards, than most writers dream of, even if I'm not rich and famous. And it also applies to my walking, balance, aching hips problems--many others have much worse things to contend with. I should just shut up and go on my merry way.
I do get comfort from church but I hope it won't offend the Lord that I get as much comfort from friends. Tonight two couples came for supper--people I rely on a lot. It was a non-Christian dinner, not in a religious sense but because son-in-law Christian took Jacob to meet his parents for his father's birthday--one of those biggies that is a mid-milestone birthday. So I cooked some foods Christian won't eat--a broccoli/chicken casserole, which everyone seemed to enjoy, and a salmon spread for an appetizer. Christian eats neither broccoli nor salmon. The rest of us enjoyed the meal.
And I felt comforted and relaxed to have these good friends around me.
Evenings are pleasant; mornings are often rough. Sometimes I have a hard time transitioning from the world of whatever dream I've had--usually pleasant--to the real world. Tomorrow I'm going to start a new habit (I hope) and that is to lie in bed for a minute and catalog in my mind all the blessings of my life. They far outweigh anxiety, aches and pains. I'm a lucky woman.