Easter Morning

It's a beautiful Easter morning. Low 60's, sunny, birds singing and chirping, a couple of rabbits rummaging through the grass in my backyard -- and I'm listening to the Acoustic Cafe on 100.7 FM.

I remember so many Easter morning from my childhood. The most obnoxious memory -- coming home from church and dining on a breakfast of blessed cold food. Hardboiled eggs, homemade Italian sausage, butter, rye bread, salt, pepper, red wine -- all properly blessed in the basement of the Catholic school Saturday morning by the priest in his flowing black smock and little white stiff collar. How I miss those days!

There was a purpose to being a good little Catholic girl back then. Or at least I thought so. My life had meaning. I'm still trying to figure out the meaning of that "meaning" because it has so incredibly impacted my life; but there is still that inevitable wondering if I've become all I can possibly be. No, I know I haven't; but then there are the consequences of the decisions I have made that prevent me from moving forward full speed ahead.

One of these days I'm going to recreate the Easter breakfasts of long ago -- I'm going to see if I can find what was lost so long ago -- the belief in those traditions and the mindset of believing that all has innate purpose without question or investigation.