Easter Sunday

It’s seven-fifty two a.m. and I’m thinking

about making a pot of free trade, organic French Roast coffee I found at a

reasonable price but actually had a hard time finding

because of all that yesterday and maybe whip together an everything-but-the kitchen-sink

omelet incorporating the leftovers from the grilled

pork tenderloin dinner I grilled last evening to go with the fresh

farmers’ market vegetable casserole my wife baked

and the great greens salad with pickled beet juice and oil dressing.

I’m listening to Rutter on the radio and having

mixed emotions about the feelings the music is evoking. I’m

reminded of a particularly hard parish and a

tough time in the parsonage. I find myself eager to get to church

this Easter Sunday to hear a word of hope.

I will find myself weeping halfway through a wonderful message

of Jesus’ ever-rising-eternal-all-embracing-love

as I do every time I sit on the hardwood bench, and I will watch the

rainbow coalition of the wounded, halt and lame

in body, mind and spirit get up and gather around the communion

table and as I hear the voices of the choir

and the congregation and the playing of the organist and the pianist

as we all lift a joyful noise unto the Lord

I will get up out of that seat and join them.  From the distant past,

I will hear Peter whispering in my left ear,

“Jesus, where else do we have to go?  You have the words of eternal

life.”  But before all that I have to get up out

of a cushioned chair to make

the pot of coffee.