I run on a liturgical rhythm. I like to think it prophetic, but it’s probably psychosomatic. Just as day four, Maundy Thursday, ended on a fairly dark note, day five and six, Good Friday and Holy Saturday were equally quiet, agitated, and somewhat cranky. The word is disappointed.
I was disappointed that after a string of such good, bright days, that my leg hurt so bad, that after swallowing all those pills, I felt so sad for no good reason. Disappointed that even though I was being given all of these roses, my first response every time was to mock them.
Today is day eight of #powerrehab and it is Eastertide. I woke up without a voice, with a headache, with a hip that burns, and a mind that absolutely refuses to focus, but with a bright green egg on my desk. “It’s your favorite color,” my redhead did not whisper as she scampered out of my room, fully re-dressed in her Easter garb, all the way to her pink sparkling Mary Janes. Today I am wondering what will happen if I just choose to take what is given to me for the gift that it is, not the gift that it isn’t.
The walk, the roses, the steady line in the green boxes are what I am given. And I swear to you, as I sit here and type this, as I get to the point in the post where I am supposed to have the pithy closing statement I realize I do not know what these things are. I do not know what this gift is. I do not understand gentleness, steadiness, flowers of the fieldness.
Good thing, as my equally liturgically minded seven year old informed me this morning, as she counted her jelly beans, I have the 48 days till Pentecost to figure it out.