But. That was when he assumed the hunt was in the afternoon. As in, after noon. He is booked solid from 7:45 to noon each and every Sunday. He rides his bike up to church, watches the choir set up and practice, greets all the 8:30 parishioners, attends church, goes to coffee and donuts, then back over for the whole shebang again.
So, when the neighbor called to see if he'd be free at 10:30 to help, I approached him. I already knew the answer, but thought there was a shred of hope he'd be willing to go to just one mass, and still do the Easter egg hunt.
"Ah, ah, ah, no, babe," he said in his Billy Crystal impersonating Sammy Davis, Jr. voice. "You know that Sundays are my reason for living!"
When I was a little girl, I distinctly remember asking my mom, "Why is it called Good Friday. I think it should be called Bad Friday." I don't remember her answer, other than it didn't satisfy me.
When I gave birth to a son nearly 18 years ago, there wasn't anything good about those first days, weeks, months and even years. It was torturous. A large part of me died in the process. It took years and years before I no longer thought of the diagnoses and future as "bad."
There has been transformation, now, "resurrection," if you will. From what I thought would be and isn't, from the ashes of the burned out plans and dreams, came the reality of the new reality.
It is good.