Oh, happy day!

I hope you, like I, can boast an altogether lovely Easter.

Sure, there were a few setbacks. I’d been planning to wear a new dress—plum, with ivory polka dots. But with the extra poundage picked up during the winter months . . . well, let’s just say I love me a good Easter egg, but prefer not to look like one.

A rather plain, bright blue dress had to do.

Then, due church and the baking of the ham, we were late in serving lunch. Meal times for the aged are not to be trifled with: my grandmother could not abide. Holiday or no, we were on ‘the list’ there for a bit.

But other than that, the weekend was glorious. My mom and I even managed to sneak in our traditional photo trek to a park. Our mission: spy a little spring.

Seems these snapshots serve a good reminder of why it’s worth the effort to do what we can for this planet we call home. We don’t have to be crazy about it, mind; but with the beauty God bestows, seems one way to say ‘thanks,’ is to be good stewards, and at least try to do our part . . .

And I quote

In other words



Good Friday + Happy Easter



A Good Friday to you!

Are you ready for the Easter festivities to commence?

I have a few items yet to mark off my list: a couple of baskets to stuff, a cake to bake, a salad to toss, a table to set—you know, the usual whatnots.

But more than anything, I’m ready for a joyous celebration. You see, I know the ending to this particular tale—and it’s a good one!

In that, I find it difficult to be morose on Good Friday. Still, I think it important to catch sight of the despair, to have an inkling of the sacrifice.

So today, a co-worker and I will take a field trip to view the Stations of the Cross. A cathedral has commissioned local artists to render their take on Christ’s journey to Golgatha, the place of the skull—to his crucifixion. It’s our way of mingling with the mourners, of following in Jesus’ steps . . . of stepping back from the frivolity, to be grateful or a gift we may never full understand.

With that, I will leave you with a Good Friday Intercessory Prayer. It’s a prayer on behalf of others, specifically, those in need–because let’s be serious, life has a way of making us a needy bunch:

Let us pray, dear friends,
That God the almighty Father
May heal the sick,
Comfort the dying,
Give safety to travelers,
Free those unjustly deprived of liberty,
And rid the world of falsehood,
Hunger and disease.

Almighty, ever-living God,
You give strength to the weary
And new courage to those who have lost heart.
Hear the prayers of all who call on you in trouble
That they may have the joy of receiving your help in their need.
We ask this through Christ our Lord.



For posterity

SWell then, I should be good to go.

Two weeks ago, to this day, I sloshed my way to a small cottage—second one in, to the right of the beekeeping hive. It faced the big house and an old grey barn, and nestled in, good and comfy like, on a parcel of land where, I can only imagine, there once lived an orchard.

I arrived bearing a wee hostess gift, proper writing accoutrements (as specifically instructed), and a mind set on adventure.

That last bit didn’t stick around for long. As a matter of fact, it blew that Popsicle stand right about the time we were instructed to write a wee bio, including one fictionalized account, in ten minutes.

And, begin . . .

With the clock ticking, I assumed standard operating procedures for a pop-quiz. Mainly, I panicked and my mind drew a blank. Whilst the others furiously penned their life stories, I struggled to recall from whence I came. As for reading our creations aloud? We’ll just pretend that part never happened . . .

All the same, when all was said and done, the writing workshop seemed a smashing success. Apparently, I was the only one who felt the need to eat a doughnut and fall into bed immediately afterwards. Rather than tire, it invigorated the others; and it showed in their work–even the one who claimed to be no writer at all.

And let’s not forget the one who amazed us all with her grace and talent. With each writing prompt she delivered a story worthy of any literary journal–lovely, poetic prose, with words that played, and sang, and danced.

Of course, even then, her name was Malia and she hailed from Hawaii, which I took as my sign I should have been home watching Hawaii 5-0.

So tonight marks the second gathering of the literati. I shan’t be in attendance. More than likely, when the clock strikes 6:00, I’ll be sitting on my couch, in my pjs, doing what I should have been doing two weeks ago. But perhaps I’ll do a little writing, too. After all, sometimes you’ve got to sit yourself down and get it done–just, you know, maybe without the timer.

And I quote

In other words