Easter comes after the Creator has bathed the earth with its spring dews and rains, dried it with blue skies and fluffy white clouds, and awakened flowers to paint the landscape in a kaleidoscope of colors. When I die I’m hoping God will hire me as His spring landscape artist.
I love everything about Easter. I don’t have to decorate or wrap presents. I don’t have to dress up like a pumpkin. I don’t have to sit on a lawn chair in the front yard pretending that my brother’s fifteen-second $10 rocket that fizzled was spectacular. I can add a new outfit including shoes to my wardrobe with no guilt or explanation. And I can throw the event all together with a quick trip to the 99¢ store for cheap squishy yellow chicks, hollow chocolate bunnies with yucky blue candy drop eyes, and some pastel colored malted milk balls, hide ‘em, and I’m done.
At Easter time, the path to my house is lined with colorful bearded irises. The count today — sixty-three purple, lavender, yellow and copper — all in bloom. Irises are my favorite flowers. Easter is a day filled with favorites.
My daughter, CoCo, the green peace advocate, put me in the mood a couple of days ago. Normally (now that’s a funny word to use with anyone in my family), we are very different. From the beginning, I accused the hospital of swapping babies. She was born with thick nearly black hair, yellow skin and so fat. When she lay on her side, she creased down the middle. My others babies had been bald and pink and still fit into newborn size clothes. The yellow was from jaundice, I later found out, the chubbiness evened out, but the disparities only grew. The family would go swimming; she’d sit bundled up in a blanket on the shore. The rest of us would play a game together; she’d play by herself. We’d eat a side dish of vegetables with dinner; she’d sit and stare at hers. Now she’s into metaphysics and I’m into menopause.
But we both love irises. For her it’s become a profession. So when she attached a photo of a beautiful magenta iris with a deep heliotrope beard to her text message to me, I was delighted. “I think Jesus would want you to see this,” it read.
I think Jesus would want you to see this
Today she invited us for a personal tour of the botanical gardens where she works. I whispered a thank you in her ear for the picture. “By the way, who wanted me to see the iris? Jesus from above or Jesús, the gardener.” We shared a laugh, and the differences dissipated.
Easter is still my favorite holiday.
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I’m sure God is there saying, “Take your time but, the job is yours when you get here!”