pie: it's what's for brunch

pie: it’s what’s for brunch


ome are Easter people, some aren’t.

We are the former, but maybe not the kind you’ve come to expect. For us there will be no bonnets or scratchy dresses, no panicked scrambling for jackets and ties that the boys will wear once. For years I have even been hard-pressed to summon any kind of enthusiasm for dying eggs—an embarrassing admission for a mother with three relatively young children to make, perhaps, but there it is.

And then there are the crowds. Every church becomes its very own Vatican City on Easter, replete with a crush of people and the standing in line to see someone, anyone in a robe who can give some sense of legitimacy to this carnival. Our church is no exception in this regard and while it is lovely to feel the energy that those happy wanderers bring into our midst, it is awfully hard to find a place to sit.

This is one of the reasons I like to usher Easter in at night. In a darkened space that holds us safely together until midnight, we listen to the same stories that were told last year, that have been told for thousands of years. We try to hold our candles in just such a way that the wax rolling down their length doesn’t seep through to our hand and we are oh-so-quiet until the lights are turned on and joy, we are told, has returned to us.

So Easter morning, then, we will be abed, dreaming of brunch and chocolate and more pie (will you just look at what the New Mexico Pie Company cooked up for Easter? you don’t have to ask, either; we ordered one), but we will be thinking of each of you wherever the day finds you: sleeping in, slurping on a chocolate bunny’s ear or singing, squeezed into a pew somewhere in your Sunday best.

Regardless, it is spring for all of us now, with things growing up around us green and new and iin this way, I think, we’re all in this Easter thing together.