It's Easter morning. Traditional services and gatherings are taking the back seat this year. Not that it's the right thing to do, but it's THE thing to do. 
    No matter what I do today, Easter and its promises are not lost in the hours of painting and schlepping and making this house ready for the sale.
     This is my Friday. Endless "to do lists" and money payouts scare me. Both, thank goodness, are shrinking. Len is much more worried although he will never say it. He nods and allows my dreams to proceed, doing the work and making the commitment. I might be too much the dreamer but it's been a part of my life for so long, I'm not sure I could function without the probability of dreams floating over my reality. It's what got me beyond the heartache, to this place, and beside this man. 
     Shortly after we met in 2008, I invited him to go with me to the mountains to check on my mountain property. I was gifted one-half an acre decades earlier by my uncle who had a weekly date at auctions and would buy, sight-unseen. This mountain was a sight-unseen purchase. The mountain ownership of family lots shrunk to simply my lot, and I held on to it for dear life. No matter how little i had in my pocket, I would not sell it. It connected me to my family, to Uncle Ivet, the beast-of-a-man who would squeeze me silly every time I walked into a room. He was the only one of my family to do that; it wasn't lost on me.
     Len didn't make the trip with me then, but he is today. From the ground up, it's the first thing that will be truly ours.
    I see Sunday approaching.  It's not in clear sight yet, but I know it's there. Without all these Friday moments,  Sunday would not mean as much. Without the struggle and hard work, the resolution might be less than expected. Without the years of uncertainty and overwhelming pain, the place where I find myself today might not be as miraculous. Without the Friday dreams of mountain living, the little log cabin in the woods might remain in my head or lost in the shuffle of life. 
     Granted, my little piece of heaven in the mountains and getting this home ready to sell is NOT the Sunday or Friday to which the Easter story speaks. However, I think it is exactly what this day should remind us about living life, having faith, accepting Christ. I hold the promise that Easter morning brings and claim it in every aspect of my life. I think that's what Jesus was teaching us. You must do the hard work to get to the victory. Nothing is every easy and it's going to hurt. You'll struggle, and that's okay. 
     Yesterday, after our millionth-hour of painting, Len said, "Remember what we're doing this for. Keep going." 
    Much like Jesus reminds us each and every day. "Remember what I did for you and why I did it. Keep going."

Photo: On our honeymoon in Bermuda in 2010. Babies, mere babies. Ha! 

It's Easter weekend. although it's cool, spring is coming on soon, and I can't be more ready. My thoughts have been living in the past for most of this week for unexplained reasons. Possibly, the popping of the pear trees, the azalea blooms warding off the cold, the aroma of spring floating through the air. and i think of mama and daddy and spring in Clarkesville.
     Right around this time of year, I always observed black dots in our pasture. Newborns. dropped whenever time came. Nothing made daddy prouder than waking me way too early in the morning and squealing to "come" see our newest baby calf. He loved on the mama cow and made sure she was as comfy as possible. and he didn't take his eye off the baby until it was on all fours. He was a good daddy.
     On Good Friday, we always planted our garden. This meant hours in the field, driving the mule, dropping the corn, and complaining a lot. However, I didn't complain months later as I slathered butter on my perfectly formed ears of sweet corn. I strangely forgot about the heat and the dirt. I still try to plant my few tomato plants on Good Friday, a long way from the ten acres I walked as a child. I thought everyone planted on this exceptional day. If you were southern, you did. Occasionally, I forget that everyone is not that lucky.
    It was the sunrise service on Sunday morning that always tested my faith. Rising early on the weekend never made sense to me, but on this weekend, it did. In the middle of a golf course, on the tallest hill around, church members watched the sun squeak over the hill. I grumbled, but that defined my Easter. Then, daddy and me would rush home. Id put on my bonnet, my froufrou of a dress and my always too-tight shinny black shoes, and we'd head to church. As I grew older, I sang in the choir - sans froufrou - and it was always the most spectacular song for that morning. After the service, the three of us would then return home where Sunday dinner and laughter would season that day and all the ones that would follow.
     My rote movements through the years, I'm afraid, have failed my parents and myself for that matter. I still survey pastures this time of year for the arrival of black dots, and I can't help but smile and remember daddy. I try to plant when the weather allows, but I have left behind the sunrise service and songs of resurrection. I can't say why, only that I know it's not as I had intended. I watch, I listen, I inhale the heralds of spring and I remember. I stand amazed at how years change us, how circumstances mold us, and how what we think will never vanish, always does. Although my stirrings are quite different than before, the hollows those early traditions carved in my heart remain. There's not a day that goes by that I don't recall from where I came and know that with a little effort and inspiration, I can be back on that tall hill beside daddy watching the sunrise.