A meeting is set for next week to finalize plans for the children’s kung fu class at the gym. My excitement grows as the days pass. But joy is a bit muted today on this Good Friday, because I miss my mother.
Mom was raised a Fundamentalist Baptist, but by the time she died, she’d probably attended a service of every Christian denomination in North America. Though she wasn’t loyal to the Fundamentalists (I can’t help but be a bit grateful for that), she was a church-going woman who consciously strove to be a good Christian until the day they wheeled her into the hospice center for the final day of her life. So, from as far back as I can remember, Easter was a big deal in our household. And though I’m not a church-going woman, it’s still a big deal to me today.
Ironically, the part of the holiday that makes me wistful for my mother’s presence is the pagan ritual. Easter egg hunts in her yard are some of the fondest memories I have of the extended family. And her final Easter, three months before her death, was the last time my children saw her still looking like herself, still acting like Nana.
I wish I could personally thank her for the many wonderful Easter weekends of my life – before and after my children came along. I did so while she was living, but not nearly enough.