I’m making turkey soup from the leftover turkey I baked for Easter. Yes, I also bought a ham that my friends at Marsh already cooked and sliced for me because I didn’t want to totally rock the Easter food tradition.
With the aroma of turkey broth and spices simmering in my kitchen, the visions of Easter weekend replayed in my head:
I watched a 20-year old Anderson student (a friend of my youngest daughter who came home with her for Easter weekend) open his Bible again after church to double-check one of the verses the Rev. Gary referred to in his Easter sermon — and discuss it thoroughly.
A small toddler dressed in a suit and tie prayed with one eye open.
My 4-year-old niece Reese picked up one of the 180,000-or-so eggs that were hidden around the farmhouse — this was one of the few colored hard-boiled eggs versus the plastic eggs with goodies inside. Upon picking up the heavy bright blue egg, she remarked: “Oh my, this one is fake,” and she carefully laid it back in its hiding place.
After the Easter egg hunt, 4-year-old Faith entertained herself as she delicately doted on a ladybug that landed on her hand and crawled on her arm for 30 minutes. Carefully handling the red-and-black-dotted insect, she named him “Spinny” because the bug seemed to spin in circles on top of her finger.
I spotted one of my hostas — that was buried last fall under a pallet of bricks and covered with concrete-like hardened soil and gravel — miraculously break its way upward to have its pip emerge.
Emerging life and experiencing life’s lessons — I believe spring and hope is in the air.
