Easter is my favorite day of the year. I love all the preparations that go into it. But the night before, I lay in bed feeling miserable: headache, chills, body aches and a fever.
I can’t be sick on Easter, I thought. What will happen if I’m not there to get everything ready?
I hosted the big family gathering every year. The grandkids hunted for eggs while I prepared a feast: ham, rosemary potatoes, candied yams, green beans, rolls, salad, chocolate cake. It was perfect. But now with me stuck in bed, our celebration would be ruined.
Lord, please let me have Easter here, I asked in the dark.
But when I woke up early that Easter morning, I felt worse than ever. I couldn’t make it out of bed, much less hide Easter eggs or cook a ham.
I called my daughter Kim. “I guess we won’t be having Easter this year,” I said sadly.
“Of course we will!” said Kim. “We’ll take care of everything. I’ll be right over, Mom. Don’t worry.”
But it won’t be the same, I thought as I drifted back to sleep. How could I do this to my family, getting sick on Easter?
I awoke sometime later to the smell of ham, rosemary and chocolate cake. And the sound of laughter throughout the house. The whole family had arrived.
Later, Kim poked her head into my bedroom. “You look better,” she said. “The egg hunt is in full swing. The kids are having a great time.”
So my family found the plastic eggs I had bought. And my recipes, judging by the delicious smells. If I didn’t know better I would think Easter was going on just fine without me!
“Mom, we’ve watched you cook for us for years,” Kim said, offering me a spoonful of candied yams to try. “We’ve learned a few things by now.”
The yams were perfect. Just, I was sure, like everything else.
As everyone sat down together and feasted on the wonderful dinner, I said my own special grace, thanking God for answering my prayers, and for reminding me that it was he—not me—who made Easter perfect.
