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Four little outstretched hands
wait patiently in the church pew
as the body of Christ comes near.
For the first time in over a year
voices of people
unite together in prayer.
Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
Christ will come again.
We are given
God’s grace and love in a bland wafer
that tastes like hope;
manna straight from heaven.
Our once empty souls now filled,
we are sent out into the world
to love as extravagantly as we have been loved.
Photo by Autumn Rowe
Ode to the Fisherman’s Wife
The salty air sprays my tired face
as I slowly trudge to the harbor.
The boat was due back yesterday;
yet there’s still no sign of its arrival.
The icy wind whips my hair,
blowing my dress between my legs
and tearing my heart into shards.
My son holds my hand tightly;
cars whizz behind me; I am completely unaware.
Fog so dense the lighthouse beacon barely glows;
Uncertainty grabs at my soul like a lion in a cage.
The baby I carry on my hip was a chick just hatched
when his boat left the shore;
the child at my side a young fledgling.
Worry paints new wrinkles on my face.
Angry waves foam against the rocks;
Seagulls sing an elegy;
Ferocious clouds above threaten another squall.
The smell of tulips fill the air;
I long for the smell of rotten fish.
My legs buckle—Will I have to face this life alone?
I stand firm—I must be strong for these children of mine.
I want to fall and weep here on the cobblestone.
Instead I stand tall, looking out, my hope a beacon;
praying for his safe arrival.
We had just moved to the North Shore of Massachusetts when we first visited Half Moon Beach. We were driving home through Gloucester in search of the Fisherman’s Statue when we passed a statue of a woman with two children watching over the ocean. I knew very little about the history of Gloucester, but there was something about this statue that made me want to know more.
I instantly knew it would become a favorite place of mine and went home that day to research her. Erected in 2001, the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Memorial is just a few blocks away from Man at the Wheel—a statue erected in 1923 in honor of the Gloucester fishermen. At its base, it reads:
“The wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters of Gloucester fishermen honor the wives and families of fishermen and mariners everywhere for their faith, diligence and fortitude.”
When I received an assignment to write an ekphrastic poem in my recent poetry class, I immediately thought of this statue. I thought it could be a good excuse to sit by the ocean for an hour or two, but the weather for the week didn’t look promising. When I woke Friday morning to sunlight streaming through my window, I seized the opportunity.
I called the girls upstairs and told them my plan. I was going thrifting, then to sit by the fisherman’s wife—did anyone want to go with me? They responded with a resounding “YES!” I reminded them I needed to sit there a while and write, so they needed to pack their own activities. They happily agreed, excited for the adventure. We all love going to Gloucester, and it had been far too long since we had taken a day to sit by this favorite statue of ours.
We went to the local thrift store and then out to brunch like I had promised. I thought if I had filled their bellies, they’d be more likely to let me sit for a while. Grateful to find a parking spot in a space with a 1-hour limit instead of 30-minutes, we parked and gathered our things. With backpacks on, the girls raced towards the tulips in bloom. I grabbed my bag and strolled along The Broadway, soaking in the smell of the sea. We stopped to smell the tulips and take some pictures before arriving at our final destination—The Fisherman’s Wife.
We walked around her slowly, taking pictures and noticing details. My kids are great at observing works of art; they love pointing out things they notice and I love hearing their perspectives. After a few minutes of this ad hoc Artist Study, I found a spot on the bench and took out my notebook and pen. Autumn continued taking pictures and Eden sat down beside me to play with the toy dog she packed in her bag.
Just as I found my flow of writing sights, smells, and sounds around me, the littlest quietly said, “Mama, I think I drank too much at lunch. I have to go potty again.” I gathered all of our things and headed to the porta-potty at the end of the street, checking my watch to see how long we had been parked. At that same moment, I got a text from David telling me he needed the van to pick up a couch we bought at the thrift store that morning.
I took a deep breath, gave a final glance of longing toward the fisherman’s wife, and loaded everyone in the car to go home.
Later that weekend I pulled out my notes and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. It wasn’t quite as magical as writing a poem while sitting at the feet of the fisherman’s wife; but as I wrote the words from the safety of my home, I felt a deep connection with this wife and her longing.
In 1991, a commercial fishing vessel and her 6-man crew were lost at sea. If you’ve seen the movie A Perfect Storm, you know the story. I highly recommend the book. It’s an incredible nonfiction account of the storm and the people involved. It reads like a thrilling novel. I had a hard time putting it down.
I park on the street by the newest coffee shop in town and step out of my car, reminiscing about the house we tried to buy a few years ago just down the street. I notice the owner of the shop on the sidewalk talking to another customer. I hear him say he doesn’t want to compete with the Amazons of the world; he wants to be celebrated for what he is. He stops his conversation to say hello and offers me an elbow bump, telling me I’m looking especially fabulous today. That green of your shirt is so beautiful he says, and I say thanks, today just felt like a green day. I think to myself, “He is my people” and I open the door, catching a whiff of cardamom as I walk in.
The minute I enter, I’m reminded of my favorite coffee shop back in my beloved Grant Park. I would walk there a couple of times a week pushing the girls in our bright blue double Bumbleride stroller, treating myself to a coffee before taking them to the zoo to play for a few hours. I miss that neighborhood every single day now that we live in Massachusetts, but this new coffee shop reminds me that places like this exist everywhere. I just have to be on the lookout.
I order a cardamom bun and a latte, and add a loaf of focaccia at the last minute, thinking it will be a good surprise for lunch after I’ve picked the girls up from their pottery class.
My hands full with the goodies I’ve purchased, I head back outside and see the owner walking back towards the shop. He stops me to say hi again and asks how I’m doing on this beautiful day. The way he asks the question feels genuine, like if I wanted to tell him about really crappy things in my life, he would sit with me and listen for however long it took. I don’t, because in this moment, all is mostly right in my world. Just the fact that this stranger is genuinely interested in my answer makes me feel a little more at home. He asks what my plans are for the day and I tell him I’m not quite sure; my kids are in a pottery class, and I’m not usually alone. “Oh how fun!” he exclaims, “So you have some chill time. Go! Enjoy your chill.”
I’m smiling from ear to ear as I unlock the doors to my grey minivan and climb inside. It’s not often that I get time by myself, and this morning’s encounter feels like a gift. I drive down the street and see the ocean in front of me. The sky is bright blue dotted with cottony white clouds. This view will never get old, I think to myself, and I continue my drive home.
I walk in the door and put the cardamom bun in the microwave before grabbing a notebook and a pen. “I’m going to the ocean!” I call out to my husband who is working downstairs. I share a bite of cardamom bun with him before I walk out the door and climb back in my grey minivan. As I back down the driveway, I open the sunroof and let the brisk air fill my lungs.
It takes six minutes to drive back to the ocean. I lived without the ocean for so long, but I can’t imagine a life without it now. I sit on the sand and watch the waves lap gently along the shore. I can feel the cool wind upon my neck and my troubles disappear into the water like tiny grains of sand. In these rare moments of solitude on the beach, I find myself praying prayers of gratitude that God always shows up in this place.
I woke at 2:30 this morning, tossing and turning like a boat on rough ocean waves. The wind roared outside my bedroom window and as I lay there unsettled, my thoughts went to my Mom. It was November when I last saw her and my heart aches at the thought. It’s always in the middle of the night that I wake up thinking of my family. Three in the morning seems like the best time to wonder if we should do what it takes to move back home to be closer to my family.
It’s always when I’m lying in complete darkness in the early morning hours, unable to fall back asleep, that I cry out to God wanting him to make a way for me to go home. It hasn’t happened in a while, but the last year has made me miss my family more than ever. It’s been a year of solitude, a year of sacrifice, a year of feeling alone. It’s been a year that could have been filled with so much more happiness if we had just been within driving distance of these dear people of mine.
But just now, God has answered my prayers in a most unexpected way. An encounter with a new coffee shop owner who genuinely cares about his customers. The ability to drop my children off at a pottery class and catch a few moments of solitude on the beach. In the kind eyes of the coffee shop owner and the gentle lapping of the waves, God whispers to me, “Crystal, you are already home.”
Photo by Bastien Jaillot on Unsplash.
The baby is 7 months old and is finally asleep in her crib for the first time. Ever. We are in the living room watching The Voice, not sure how to use our new freedom when we hear a loud, hoarse cough on the monitor.
I jump up and run to the back bedroom, opening the door as quietly, and as quickly, as I can. It sounds like she’s choking. In a state of panic I call David to Come Quick! I pick her up from the crib, pat her back hard, and see flem bubble from her mouth. She barks a loud barking cough, sounding like a seal stranded on the shore. David quickly packs the diaper bag as I try to gain control of my emotions. I know I need to be calm in a time such as this, but my heart races with terror. I bounce the baby in my arms, trying to calm us both down. The more she cries, the more she coughs, and it looks as though she’s struggling to breathe.
We drive to the children’s hospital a few miles away. As we enter the huge parking garage, David grabs his employee ID from his wallet; it’s like a magic wand that allows us to park right by the entrance. By the time we get to the ER desk, the baby’s coughing has died down, but her head is burning up. I didn’t check her temperature, but I’m sure it’s well above normal. She appears to be breathing fine now, we tell the nurse, but we’d like someone to look at her to confirm.
We take a seat in the waiting room, the baby strapped to my chest in the Ergo, now dozing between small coughs. We’re terrified. I’ve never been to an ER in my entire life and the range of things that could be wrong with our baby girl runs through my mind.
They call us back to a room and take her vital signs. She has a fever of 103.5 but everything else looks okay. Her lungs sound a little strained but it’s nothing to worry about, the doctor says. It’s a bad case of croup, she tells us. Usually cool night air will stop the fit and that seems to be what happened tonight. They give the baby Tylenol to bring her fever down, steroids to help clear gunk from her lungs, and send us home with a prescription for antibiotics. The doctor’s final words are for us to get some sleep and I think she must not have kids of her own. What parent can sleep after a night like this?
It’s close to midnight by the time we get home, and I sit in the glider with the baby on my chest. I look over at the crib with a sense of animosity—it can stay empty forever, I think—and then I fall asleep.
***
We spent hours preparing the nursery before our first daughter was born. We painted the walls a deep dark green; a color that exuded calmness and serenity. We found a dresser that doubled as a changing table on the side of the road. David hand painted bunnies on the front doors to match the bedding we had chosen. With its delicate brown and green leaves and its tender young bunnies, it reminded me of The Tale of Peter Rabbit.
That nursery sat unused for six months, until we packed it up and moved to a different apartment. When we unloaded the nursery boxes I left them untouched for days. There was no need to unpack. The baby wouldn’t sleep in her own room anyway, no matter what we tried.
A few weeks after we moved into the new place, we unpacked the nursery boxes and painted the walls goldenrod yellow. The apartment had dismal lighting and yellow felt like a good way to brighten up the room. The changing table came with us, but we had quickly learned putting a baby on a table wasn’t the easiest way to change a diaper, so it was hardly used for more than storage.
We decided it was time to do something about our abysmal sleep. Our baby was 7 months old and all the books say sleep training is the best thing for everyone involved. Parents need sleep. Babies need to learn how to self-soothe; it’s an important skill, the experts said. It won’t take long—just a few days—and there are gentle ways to do it. We put the crib on the wall closest to the door so that if the baby did sleep in it, we could hear her midnight cries.
Then I went to a friend for advice. She had four kids of her own—two in their early teen years—so I knew she had walked this road before. She didn’t tell me what to do; good friends never do. If I wanted to sleep train this baby of mine, I probably wouldn’t be able to do it myself, she told me. Knowing my tender heart, she offered to do it for me. I told her I would think about it.
David and I talked and decided we’d start by just getting the baby to sleep in her crib for a few hours a night. So what if she couldn’t put herself to sleep? If she would sleep there instead of our bed, we could resume some normalcy of adult life. And here we are. The first night of success in this venture and we find ourselves in the ER, of all places. As a new mom, I couldn't help but wonder: would things have been different if we had just let her sleep in our bed?
***
She had several other bouts of croup as a very young child and we now know that croup is most commonly caused by a virus. She likely would have had the attack that night no matter where she slept. But we never did sleep train that baby. Or the one that came next. There wasn’t a sleep training method that seemed right for us. As they turned into toddlers and preschoolers, we continued to lie next to them as they fell asleep. It became sacred space. The time when we heard their last assessments of the day and answered life’s big questions that always seemed to arise right when their heads hit the pillows.
I wish we had embraced these moments as precious ones a little sooner in our parenting journey. That baby was a year old before we embraced bedtime as something we would always do together. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t spend time curating the perfect nursery. I wouldn’t buy fancy bedding or a crib. I wouldn’t stop and grab the changing table from the side of the road. I wouldn’t feel guilty about how my baby fell asleep. I would ignore the experts and listen to the voice inside my head saying my kids wouldn’t always need me next to them to fall asleep. That baby was a year old before we embraced bedtime as something we would always do together.
That baby is now nine, and after we’ve read together, talked about the day, and given her hugs and kisses, she falls asleep on her own. We’ve learned to embrace our bedtime routine as one filled with sacred space and holy moments. Babies grow up to be big kids who want to do things on their own. Even falling asleep.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Do-Over".
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The table was set with our favorite teapot and mismatched teacups with saucers picked up in our latest thrifting adventure. Poetry books were scattered around the table, waiting to be opened and a favorite poem read. I called my children to the table for our first "Poetry Tea" and they ran through the house as though it were the best day of the year. After pouring tea in everyone's cup, and passing around store-bought cookies I grabbed the night before, I invited them to pick up a book and choose a poem to read out loud. To break the ice, I went first, reading a poem they had learned to recite a year ago—one we all knew and loved:
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –
~Emily Dickinson
Once I had gone first, they were eager to read the poems they had selected, and we spent an hour and a half reading poetry to each other on that rainy afternoon. We read poems from Emily Dickinson, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sara Teasdale, and Maya Angelou. C. S. Lewis, Shel Silverstein, Christina Rossetti, and Langston Hughes. We read poems that made us laugh, we read poems that made us sad, poems we didn’t understand, and ones that made us mad.
I hadn't read poetry in years. My high school English teacher's question of But what does it mean? still rings loud in my ears, but this time with my children has made me start to see that poetry is not about meaning; poetry is about emotion. Prioritizing poetry for my children has become my own gateway to loving poetry. The more poetry I read to them, the more I want to read poetry for myself.
A few weeks ago, I started a poetry journal and am learning to write my own poetry. There's something so freeing about being able to write all my emotions without worrying about whether or not it's appropriate. As I dig deeper into writing the hard stuff in my head, I’m finding poetry to be a refreshing change of pace. When I stopped trying to understand what the poet meant and stepped back to look at how the poetry made me feel, I realized that poetry is like a great piece of art. It holds the meaning of the artist, yes; but it also holds so much more. It holds the feelings and emotions of anyone—everyone—who reads it, and it just may have a different meaning every single time.
Poetry is the heartbeat of humanity, I'd like to think.
P.S. April is National Poetry Month, and to celebrate I am participating in 30 Days of Haiku. You can find my poems over on Instagram if you’re into that kind of thing.
I’m sitting in the observation room at the vaccination site just down the road from my house, waiting to make sure I don’t have any severe reactions. My arm starts to hurt a little when I feel an wave of emotion hit my heart and tears start to form in my eyes. I didn’t expect to feel emotional over this. I mean, it’s just a shot. I hate shots—so much so that I’m one of those people that doesn’t always get her flu shot—but this one feels different.
David and I were in the kitchen making tacos earlier this week when I asked, “Which one should I take?” Somehow I had found myself with three vaccine appointments to choose from—two appointments next week that require me to drive, and one appointment three weeks out at the site I can walk to—and I had a serious case of decision fatigue. Months ago I had informed him, “I will not get this damn shot until I can walk down the street”; yet as my newsfeed became filled with vaccine-selfies, I began feeling this overwhelming sense of being left out.
The truth is, I didn’t expect to be eligible until much later this month, but last week Massachusetts added being overweight to the list of underlying conditions. I never thought I’d be glad about those last ten pounds I can’t seem to lose. Now that I find myself on the list of eligible receivers, I want this shot now, dammit! I’m tired of being patient! But at David’s urging, I made the appointment at the site down the street. Feeling thankful that I had an appointment on the calendar, I decided I would stalk the website much like I did for beach tickets last summer, hoping for a last minute cancellation so I could get in earlier than three weeks from now. And then late last night, I logged in on a whim and found today’s appointment waiting there just for me.
And that’s how I got here: the observation room where I am squeezing back the unexpected emotion I feel. David and I have joked that this shot will give you superpowers. He’s hoping for wings so he can fly. I’m hoping for arms like Inspector Gadget—all moms need “go-go Gadget arms.” And maybe a brighter smile. I’m pretty sure that’s a positive side effect of this vaccine, so hey, sign me up.
This past year has felt so heavy. No one can seem to agree on the best course of action. Do we play a game of chicken with this virus in an attempt to build up our immunity? Or do we wear masks, hoping they work at least a little, and when it’s available, get a shot of magic science and let our body do it’s thing artificially?
I am one of those crunchy, chiropractor going, essential oil loving, (mostly) natural eating people who did tons of research on vaccines when my babies were born. We delayed their vaccines, because I didn’t think my tiny babies needed all that much protection, but I have never been anti-vax. I think our bodies were designed to fight off bad stuff, but I also believe vaccines play an important role in keeping people safe—especially those who are most at risk. I also think the risks of most diseases far outweigh the risks of the vaccines, and who really wants to get sick anyway?!
But.
I also don’t love the way vaccines are made. Or the junk that goes into them. Or the fact that the CDC recommends tiny little babies be shot up with a lot of unnatural substances before they have any time to develop outside the womb. So, you could say I’m a middle-roader. My kids (and I) are fully vaccinated, but I also believe in healthy questioning of authority and true dialogue with your health providers. In short, I believe if you live a life of medical privilege, and your body can handle a vaccine, you should get it. Because many other people may not be as lucky as you. And your shot may help save their life.
I practically jumped into that building today. So much of the last year has felt helpless. There has been nothing I could do that would really make a difference in making this terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad disease go away. And today, instead of saying no to one more thing I really want to do, I got to say yes to something.
Sure, I got a shot for my own sake, because I am a homeschooling mama and writer who does not have time to get sick. Because I miss my friends. Because I want to visit my family without worry. Because I want to take that trip to Niagara Falls we had planned for last year. But mostly I got it because it’s a tangible way I can show my love for my neighbor.
After my observation time was done, I walked to Whole Foods across the street and bought new lipstick. Because one day soon, we won’t need masks anymore, and I’ll wear lipstick to mark the occasion.
Dear 9-year-old me,
Lately I’ve been remembering back to the time in which you live. There are so many happy memories with Mom, the aunts, your sisters and your best friend. I often get so caught up in all the hard memories that I don’t spend much time remembering the good ones too.
Never forget how loved you are. Don’t harbor ill feelings toward the ones you don’t think love you. It’s not that they don’t love you, they just don’t know how to show it. They get caught up in their own junk and take it out on you. Don’t let their mistakes destroy your joy.
Your little sisters are your best friends. You may not believe that now, but one day it will be true. Keep loving them, even when it is hard, and know that one day you will deeply cherish each other.
When you are barely in your 20s, you will get married and it will be the biggest mistake of your life. Don’t hate yourself for it, but learn from it. You will experience death and resurrection, but only if you allow it. You’ll learn to be a better wife, and you will find true love. Stay open to it, even when it feels scary.
One day you’ll be a mom and it will fill your heart with more joy than you ever thought possible. Don’t ignore your motherly instincts. God created you for this. God will be there every step of the way to guide you and to love you. Ignore the experts when they tell you how your babies should sleep. You’re smart. Do your research. Let your instinct be your guide.
For now, try to be a child. Don’t let the weight of the world get you down. Read all those books you want to read. Go outside more—you’ll find happiness in nature. You will get dirty, but learn to embrace the dirt. It can be fun! And it’s a great excuse to take a bubble bath.
Adulthood is long and sometimes hard. You’ll need playfulness and a sense of humor to get you through. Master that now and your life will be full of joy, no matter what troubles come your way.
Whatever happens, never forget who you are, and whose you are.
Beloved child of God.
Love,
40-year-old Me
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
It’s Palm Sunday. 2021.
I’m sitting on the couch, my daughters snuggled in tight on either side of me, the computer sitting on the coffee table in front of us. The organ plays, and they begin to sing the first stanza of “All Glory Laud and Honor” with all their might. Feeling my eyes start to water, I stand up and walk toward the kitchen, looking for something to keep my mind off what I’m feeling inside. This isn’t what I want for today. I don’t want to watch this service. I don’t want to imagine Jesus’s procession in my mind. Not here. Not now. I want to ignore it and pretend today is just another day of the week.
This is not what church is supposed to be like. There is no celebration in my heart for this Jesus that is coming into the city. It doesn’t feel celebratory. It feels too far off. Jesus’ power feels empty today. Or maybe I’m just cranky.
A cramp forms in my stomach and I feel the physical pain of mourning. A physical sign of the angst my body feels over spending this holiest week at home, without my beloved church community. Sure, there will be a celebration of sorts on Easter Sunday, but without the other gatherings of this week, I almost don't even want to go. I don’t want a substitute Easter celebration. I want Easter like it’s always been. Gathered together, wearing our best dresses and our fanciest hats, singing “Alleluia” and “Christ is risen” and celebrating the truth that Jesus is victorious over death.
Usually Holy Week feels sacred. The most sacred week of the year. The week when we remember the death so that the resurrection feels majestic. The resurrection has no teeth without the days that precede it. But this Holy Week feels different. This Holy Week feels redundant. Like it started more than a year ago and has been the longest Holy Week of my life. More than 365 days of remembering loss. Of feeling sadness and lament and heavy, heavy emotions. I am ready for the flowers and the new life and the resurrection.
I have experienced resurrection in my own life. I know it’s real. I know it’s beautiful. And I don’t want to wait for it any longer.
And yet.
We have to.
We have to continue to live in this place of lament. This last year has shown us the stark divide between God’s kingdom and our world. In the last year we have seen, firsthand, how the world is not what God intended when he created it so long ago.
We’ve seen almost three million deaths worldwide because of a virus that no one could control.
We’ve seen black men and women killed. Simply because they are black.
We’ve lost friends and relatives without being able to say goodbye. Unable to celebrate their lives with other people who have loved them.
We’ve seen mass shootings.
Nuclear bomb testing.
Nasty and emotional political divides.
Broken democracies.
Fights for power.
Children torn from parents.
And so much more.
It has been a year from hell. It has been a year like no other I can remember. Ever. In my life. It’s like in Harry Potter when Voldemort increasingly gains power until it feels like he will win and kill them all. It feels like evil will win this world and we will all be crushed to pieces. We know how the story ends, but right now, it feels like maybe we’re wrong.
Is this what it felt like on that very first Easter? The mourning, the uncertainty, the pain of loss? This sense of unbelief—Will we ever get through this? Will the church as we once knew it ever be quite the same?
Church isn’t supposed to be virtual. Church is supposed to be the living, breathing, touchable hand of God. Church is supposed to be the place where we physically feel the touch of other humans, a promise that God is here, in the midst of us. Church is supposed to be the place where we feel the water dripped on our heads and taste the bread and wine on our tongues. Church is a sensual place; not a virtual one. And we haven’t had any of that in over a year. No wonder this Holy Week feels so dark.
The pastor starts his sermon with a question that pierces my heart and puts me back into my place: “Are we willing to make the sacrifices required in following Jesus?”
This is really the crux of our faith. Even today. Especially today. We have given up so much of our lives over the last year; not for our own safety, but for the safety of others. For those who are more vulnerable than we. We have sacrificed our own desire for “church” to protect the ones who need it most. We have laid down our own hearts for the sake of others’ lives.
This question makes me wonder: What if church is more than a community of people gathered together to worship this Jesus that we all love? Maybe church is a community of people willing to sacrifice everything—even its own life together—for the sake of the world. As painful as it feels not being together, maybe this year Holy Week isn’t so much about gathering together to remember Jesus’s death. Maybe it’s about what our empty church represents instead.
We represent a Jesus who was willing to give up his entire life so that we would know how much God loves us. We represent a Jesus who was willing to come to the earth and live his entire life as an outcast so that each one of us could experience true love and eternal life. We represent a Jesus who everyone thought would break down the walls in this world, but instead was about showing us that greater things are still to come. We represent a Jesus that proclaims the Kingdom is here, and yet will never be fully here, all at the same time.
At the start of worship I thought to myself, “This is a Holy Week like no other.” But now I’m not quite sure. Now I think maybe this is a Holy Week like all the others that have come before. Maybe this Holy Week feels different because we really understand what Holy Week is all about. Maybe this Holy Week is about reminding us that death and resurrection will never be truly complete here in this life. Easter is always temporary—and permanent—all at the same time. That is the paradox of the Christian faith.
And maybe this year we are experiencing that in a very real, and very tangible, way.
She brought her ravioli maker to Show and Tell. But she failed to tell the story.
She talked about when they moved to Massachusetts and joined a CSA, wanting to eat locally and seasonally. She told them she bought a huge chest freezer and now spends her summer and fall preserving food, stocking up, preparing for winter. She told them if they had any questions about canning or freezing or how to eat seasonally, she was their gal. But she forgot to tell the deeper story behind the ravioli maker.
She forgot to tell them she spent that afternoon making ravioli from what she found in her freezer the day before. She found kohlrabi greens and some leftover roasted butternut squash. Not knowing what to do with the kohlrabi greens she blanched early in the summer (who even eats kohlrabi greens anyway?) she left them on the counter to drain for hours before squeezing them until they were completely dry. “I know!” she thought, “I’ll make pasta!” She threw the greens in the food processor with some flour, salt, and eggs and after a minute or two they magically became dough.
She formed the dough into a ball, wrapped it tightly in a plastic wrap blanket, and left it to rest on the counter as she cleaned the food processor for its next task. As she grabbed a towel and wiped the water off the clean food processor, she patted herself on the back for her creativity in the kitchen. Little did she know when her family bought her a pasta roller for Mother’s Day last year that homemade pasta would become her new fallback meal. She never dreamed she’d be here, turning greens into pasta with every chance she could find.
She turned to the counter and stared at the squash, thinking back to when she first roasted it on a sheet pan to go with a Roast Chicken sometime last fall. Knowing it wouldn’t get eaten as leftovers, she froze it for later, and forgot about it until now. She can’t bear to throw away food, not when she knows the work that goes into its growth. In a fit of inspiration, she dumped the squash in the food processor and pureed it until smooth. “This will make delicious ravioli,” she thinks, “but for the kids, I’ll have to make cheese.”
This is why she brought the ravioli maker to show and tell in the first place. She wanted to tell the story of how learning to cook seasonally helped her be creative. It helped her find a purpose. Helped her put down roots.
She wanted to tell them about the time her family first visited Boston so many years ago and found themselves at a Farmer’s Market where they could buy raspberries and butternut squash and celery too. How in that moment she turned to her husband and said, “Okay, we can move here, as long as I can buy all of our food from a farm.” They had been part of a CSA in Atlanta, but the variety was nothing compared to what she saw there. She had been exploring bigger farms in the Atlanta area, and this move felt like an opportunity to find one of the things they had been searching for.
She wanted to tell the story of how that farm they found their first year in MA was the first place that felt like home. That farm-fresh food is a large part of why they stayed in Massachusetts three years ago when all she really wanted to do was move back to Georgia. She wanted to tell the story of how preserving food connects her to family who live so far away; how they too spend their summers stocking up whatever food they can, because it’s what her Grandma used to do.
She forgot to tell the story of how she found herself in that farmstand, her garden, and her kitchen that year. She learned how to be creative with the food they were given. She learned to read recipes—and to alter them—and she learned that everything tastes better when you get it from the farm. She learned that her kids will eat anything if she tells them Farmer Jamie grew it. But most of all, she learned that cooking can be therapeutic, if we give ourselves the space to try it.
She brought the ravioli maker to show and tell because so much of who she is—of who she has always been—revolves around taking what she’s given and turning it into something beautiful. But she forgot to tell the story, so she took her failure and turned it into writing. And she realized that maybe it wasn’t such a failure after all.
*Adapted from Smitten Kitchen to use any and all greens found in my freezer.
1 bunch blanched greens of any kind (to blanch greens, you throw them in a pot of boiling water for 2-3 minutes. Put them directly in a bowl of ice water for 2-3 minutes until cool. Use or freeze.)
1 ½ cups semolina flour
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon sea salt or kosher salt
3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
Additional flour as needed for rolling out the dough
Drain your greens and squeeze as much water out as you can. It helps to use paper towels to get your greens as dry as possible.
Dump greens, flours, and salt in the food processor and pulse until the greens are chopped and mixed into the flour well. Add eggs and egg yolks and pulse until the dough starts to come together. Pour the dough onto the counter and knead into a ball. Let sit for 5 minutes and knead again for about 5 minutes. Cover with plastic wrap and let sit on the counter for at least an hour. You can also stick it in the fridge overnight, just make sure to let it come to room temperature before you try to roll it out.
Divide the dough into six pieces. Roll each piece as thin as you possibly can, or run it through a pasta roller. I use this roller that attaches to my KitchenAid Mixer, and I run it through until I get to number 5. You can use it for lasagna or ravioli at this stage, or you can let the large sheets sit on your counter for 5 minutes before cutting it into its final shape.
Cook in a pot of boiling salted water for 2-5 minutes, or until al dente. Drain and toss with marinara or butter, and top with parmesan cheese. Enjoy, while being completely amazed that everyone in your family has just devoured greens that would otherwise have been composted.
Here we are, a year after the pandemic was first declared, and we’re planning for another Holy Week and Easter at home. I never imagined this pandemic life without church would continue for an entire year and I’m deeply saddened by the thought of another Easter at home. I hope this is the last time in my life that I am separated from church in this way.
Easter is my favorite day of the entire year. Not necessarily because of the celebration, but because of the quiet that happens just before. Easter is all about mystery. About stillness and quietness. About the beauty of wonder.
Growing up, my Mom would wake us up SUPER early, bundle us up, and take us to our church’s outdoor sunrise service. I'll never forget the way we walked into the wooded sanctuary in the dark of the morning, the wonder I felt when I heard the Magnificat sung, and the majesty of the sun rising just as we were remembering our baptism and partaking in Holy Communion. Then we'd eat an amazing breakfast at church, prepared by my favorite people that were like grandparents to me. After breakfast, my family, and my best friend’s, would stay at church to get ready for the festival service. From the brass choir to the Gospel processional with banners and torches, this Easter service was a true celebration of the primary tenant of our faith—Christ is risen from the dead.
Every year, once I was in my Easter dress, I'd sneak into the dark and quiet Sanctuary where I was blown away by the smell of fresh flowers from the flower cross and the potted flowers around the altar. Even as a young child, I'd sit in the pew quietly, just for a moment or two alone. I needed those moments of quiet, those moments of mystery, so that I could fully appreciate the fanfare that was to come.
Easter was the defining moment of my faith as a child. Not because of the fanfare—but because of the stillness and the mystery that came before it. That quiet sanctuary filled with flowers remains my most vivid Easter memory, even now, as an adult.
I've had a hard time as a parent finding ways to recreate that same stillness and mystery for my own children, but last year offered us an opportunity to do just that. We woke them up SUPER early, bundled them up, and headed to the beach to watch the sunrise. And we discovered that even in the midst a pandemic, the stillness and mystery still happens. Christ is still risen.
Although Easter last year was one we will never forget, it didn’t have the same majesty that Easter should have. The quiet and stillness are most powerful when the fanfare comes next. The stillness feels like wandering until you’ve experienced the celebration that comes at the end.
Last year I put together some ideas for how to make Palm Sunday and Holy Week special when we can’t celebrate in-person together. The words I wrote then feel even more relevant today. Our church isn’t quite ready to worship together yet—even masked and outside—so it will be another Easter at home. Last year was a unique experience—one we worked hard to see the beauty in—but the reality is Easter was an incredibly hard day. Although we watched worship on our computer, it felt less like Easter than just another day in what was to become a very long pandemic life. We tried to celebrate at home, but the truth is I was a teary mess the entire day. I am feeling a deep sense of grief over another Easter without my church community, while at the same time remaining hopeful that by summer we can gather together in celebration once again.
This year, our church is offering drive-through Communion, and I am beyond excited to receive the body and blood of Jesus Christ for the first time in over a year. It has been far too long, and Easter will be momentous and special for Holy Communion alone. It will be a true remembrance that nothing can keep Jesus in the tomb.
Although the last thing we want to do is celebrate another Easter at home, we’ve learned that marking these occasions together can be special memories, and that God most certainly shows up. Here are some of our ideas for how to make your Easter Weekend special and meaningful, even if you—like us—won’t be able to gather with your church community or family and friends.
Spend the morning decorating your house for Easter. We turn our mantel into an altar for Holy Week, and on Holy Saturday we will decorate it with twinkly lights and vases of flowers from our yard or neighborhood. I’m not sure what will have blooming here in New England—Easter seems early this year—but usually we can find a few daffodils and forsythia branches. Last year a friend bought me flowers for my Easter mantel and I may continue the tradition by purchasing a bouquet or two for myself. We’ll also hang our Alleluia banner—we used these letters—and the flower cross we created last year.
The best part of Easter Sunday last year was waking up early to watch the sun rise. The location that we chose wasn’t the best place to see the sun rising over the water, so we’ll scope out a different location this year. Beginning the tradition of waking my kids up early, when it’s still dark, and driving to a secluded location to watch the sunrise was perhaps the greatest gift of being forced to celebrate Easter at home. This is something we will continue for the rest of our years.
I like to do this while we’re waiting for the sunrise because it is a great conversation starter while you’re sitting in the stillness. What do you think it felt like to discover the empty tomb? My favorite version of the story comes from Matthew 28. It beautifully captures the mix of emotions that the women felt when they discovered the empty tomb.
Everything feels a little more special if you wear your nicest clothes. When we go to celebratory affairs, we dress up. You may be at home on Easter morning, but treat yourself to a nice outfit for the day. It might help you feel a little better about having nowhere to go.
It seems like a no brainer to attend worship on Easter, in whatever way you can. But the reality is online worship is not something that feels celebratory, and it’s something we many times avoid. Communal worship is important on Easter though, even if we don’t feel like it, because it reminds us that our faith is bigger than the four walls around our house. Worshiping with your church community, even if it’s just through Zoom, can help us remember that God remains with us no matter what, and that this too shall pass.
Last year David and I hid eggs for the girls, but this year we’re considering inviting a few friends over for a masked egg hunt. We know enough about the virus this year to know it’s likely not going to pass through surfaces, and you can have hand sanitizer available for everyone to use before and after the hunt. If you take precautions in filling eggs and limit the hiding so that only one person is touching them, you can be fairly confident that you’re having a safe and fun event. We are still limited in MA as to how many people we can have gather in our yard, but even inviting one family over can make the day a little more special.
Sharing special meals is one way we mark special days on our calendar. Easter is a time to make something you wouldn’t normally fix on an ordinary weeknight. I love this recipe for Lamb Chops or this one for Baked Ham, served with crispy potatoes and creamed greens. Or if you’re vegetarian, this Lemony Asparagus Risotto looks delicious, as does this Chickpea Salad and this Spring Panzanella. And don’t forget the deviled eggs!
However you celebrate Easter this year, may you find peace and beauty in the stillness and mystery of the day.