My wife and I ate dinner with my aunt and uncle this Easter Sunday, sharing the table with cousins and their spouses and their children, and new friends. Curried chicken. Roasted lamb. Grilled asparagus. Greek salad with feta cheese. Marionberries, strawberries, pineapple. Lemon meringue pie with coconut shavings. Black Butte Porter. Lemonade. Ice water. And bread left over from communion served during the Good Friday service at church.
Across the far ends of the combined tables we talked and laughed, sharing stories and jobs and plans, watching my little first cousins once removed crawl across the dinner table through the salad. Okay, no, she didn’t do that. But she did squeal out of joy from her high chair, and the oldest daughter of my cousindidcrawl underneath the table as we enjoyed the pie and coffee, and we tickled her with our toes.
The spring weather warmed the dining room. Apple blossoms lining the street stretched white and high into the blue sky, fragrant everywhere. In the backyard a pear blossom stirred slightly in the warming air. We haven’t had good weather like this in Boise for some time–ha, since winter, when it was uncharacterstically too warm; but this spring in the wet weather we welcomed this true first bloom of spring. On Easter Sunday.
Listening to friends and family and my wife share conversation amidst the chatter and laughter and the encouragement gave me a deep rest in what Jesus did for us on this day, bringing life. Just to be alive. Just to live. Just to feel, and give. There is nothing better than life. To be forgiven. To be free. I deeply enjoyed this day because it was given to me to enjoy out of the grace of my King. This post isn’t special. It won’t turn heads. It’s just a statement of thankfulness to my King to say I love you. Thank you for making me a writer.