Easter Planning
Because I’ve been let
down before I tried to not get too excited about the Church’s upcoming plans
for Easter and it paid off, I was right, I was working that day. Phooey. Church
must be for the retired. No, that can’t be true either because the retired members
use cruise vacations and visiting grandchildren as a reason for availability
conflicts. I would have thought the
Easter festivities would be on Easter, (makes sense to me), not the day
before. My work schedule leaves me two
available full weekends to do fun stuff and my church never gets it correct,
they continuously arrange things on my unavailable Saturdays. They must hack my
work schedule to plan this; it can’t possibly be totally accidental. I wish I
wasn’t so paranoid, but at least I’m in touch with my emotions.
As I fidgeted with
the ring on my left hand I realized the only options open to me were making
cash donations and being part of the pre festivity activities. These were
workable alternatives, but darn, I really wanted to be a part of the actual
revelry, not a behind the scenes worker. Oh well, I opened
my pocket book and made a contribution, (a hefty contribution, pat on the back), to the planning
committee and signed my name down, in big letters, for volunteer assignments,
(if they analyzed my penmanship I wonder what my signature revealed about my
current attitude.)
With half a heart, I
took some posters/flyers and thumbtacks with me from the planning committee to
distribute around my neighborhood. They would probably sit on my car’s back
seat for days before I got motivated to nail them to phone poles. And again, I was right. Three days before Easter Eve I leashed my dog Scruffy and
trekked up and down my street and fifteen thousand others nailing signs on
anything that was made of wood. Each time a sign went up I got to admire my
ring. It was a simple ring, that a friend gave me when I joined the church but
it made me feel, well—religious. It was my seal of church membership.
Scruffy, I discovered
years ago, was a fantastic kid magnet. Kids of all sizes continuously
approached me and begged to pet him and when I assented some of the younger
ones would back away in fear after their first attempt to touch him. Why bother
to ask if they were scared? It was obvious the only injury they would sustain
from Scruffy would be abrasions from his tongue. I used the dog petting
opportunities to invite the youngsters to the church Easter festivities,
advising them to consult their parents. Parents who I suspected would have
other plans for their days off or no intention of exposing their youngsters to fiction as I’d already heard from some
out spoken adults, in front of their young and impressionable progeny.
“Thanks, but my
parents made me go to church when I was a kid and I promised myself I would let
my kids make up their own minds about church.” One lady with several youngsters
fawning over Scruffy, politely informed me after I extended a cordial
invitation to her.
Each time I was
subjected to that and similar comments I fingered my ring and launched a silent
prayer upwards. That ring really made me feel connected with the Eternal One.
I headed home with
one final poster in my possession. Where to put this one—hmmm. Scruffy strained at his end of the retractable
leash pulling me to—the duck pond. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I should have
kept several flyers for this location, it was primo. Today it was packed with
families of all sizes throwing bread into the waters for the resident overstuffed
fowl, or fishing off the embankments.
Darn it, should I retrace my steps and retrieve a few extra posters/flyers?
Oh, heck, no. It was getting late and I had other things to do. Volunteer work
should be easy, not exhausting. The church should be appreciative I posted as
many announcements as I had.
My poster hanging
duties officially done I rested on a bench by the pond so Scruffy could have a
front row seat for duck viewing/antagonizing and as expected Scruffy took full advantage of
his retractable leash to sashay along the border of water and land yapping
ferociously at the winged targets and upsetting a fisherman, who by the looks
of his empty bucket already flunked the right to be called a fisherman. He gave
me some dirty looks, obviously displeased that Scruffy was further hindering
his objectives. It’s not our fault, buddy, you were here long enough to catch something before we got here.
Oh, well, time to
move on, I thought, as I waved my hand politely at the fisherman, just at the
right angle so he could see my ring, and disappointed he didn’t.
A battered old car was parked on the street obscured behind the park’s sign with the back door
held opened by a tatty looking dude. A semi pristine little girl was leaning in
talking to someone blocked from my vision.
Something seemed wrong about this picture, and for some reason Scruffy’s
interest was piqued at whatever interaction was taking place because he used
all of his thirteen pounds to pull me towards the beat up car. Man, I really
needed to work out with weights more, this was humiliating, the only explanation; Scruffy had to have
gained some extra pounds.
“Hey,” I said
casually as I peeked harmlessly into the car’s backseat where a young boy sat
with a box on his lap.
“Hey,” Tatty Looking
Dude echoed shifting on his feet. Did he look guilty of something?
“What’cha got
there?” I asked.
“I was just showing
your daughter some puppies,” Tatty Looking Dude answered.
“Oh, she’s cute but
she’s not mine,” I responded as Scruffy underwent a transformation from cuddly
pooch to intimidating canine, exhibiting his fangs; it wasn’t like Scruffy not
to see a friend in every stranger. Again, something here was muddled.
The little girl, in
her effort to get closer to the adorable puppies, was now half kneeling on the
back seat when someone called her name,” Come on Lindy, time to go.” It was
fisherman.
Tatty Looking Dude lowered his head, slammed
the car’s back door shut, hopped behind the drivers’ wheel and spun off; he
disappeared faster than my paychecks.
Well, if that doesn’t mean something, I thought, as I memorized the
license plate. I now stood alone on the
corner of what might have been a crime scene.
I heard Little Girl
endeavoring to convince daddy of the necessity of puppy ownership as she
skipped off arm in arm with him past my poster, unaware that she had probably
almost become a victim in a crowded park.
I glanced at Scruffy, what had he sensed? It seems Fisherman had lowered
his guard while fishing and, I hypothesized, almost lost his daughter in a very
public arena. I called the local police
department with a description of the car and felt foolish as I gave my gut
feelings about my suspicions but I deeply believed that doing nothing was silent
complicity. The police probably thought I was nut who’d seen too many Sherlock
Holmes movies.
I gave Scruffy’s ear
a good scratching. He was the one truly responsible for rescuing Little Girl,
after all, the duck pond was his brainchild.
The next goal for the
Easter festivities involved me spending my Friday off filling colored plastic
eggs with Easter tokens and candy.
Tokens and candy I had helped acquire, remember my hefty contribution? I
sure did.
On Saturday morning,
the one I’d be absent from, there would be several stations depicting the last
night and days of Jesus. At each station
the kids, after an appropriate scripture reading, would receive an egg
containing a symbol of the event portrayed. For example, at the last supper the egg held a picture of
a loaf of bread; the garden of Gethsemane, some praying hand stickers; the
trial, little leather strips; the crucification, little match stick
crosses; the resurrection , little pebbles (remember the stone rolled away from
the tomb?) and so forth .
There would be eight
stations in all, with an estimated 400 eggs needing 400 symbols, not to count
the eggs that would be filled with candy. This was another splendid day off
doing something I wouldn’t be a partaker of, not in the fun or publically visible sense. Well, at
least I got to meet some of the other church members, some of who, by the way,
verbally admired my simple ring.
It wasn’t until I
went to bed Friday night that I noticed a grave personal loss. My ring was gone.
My ring. After a thorough house, car and driveway search I had to admit to
myself I had lost it at church. I’ll bet anything it had slipped off into one
of those darn eggs. Great, I had made a heftier contribution than I initially
realized , not financially, but in terms of my connection to God. I went to
sleep morning my loss.
Sunday morning,
Easter, I went to church and got to hear second hand about all the excitement I
had missed; after inquiring, of course, whether anyone had found my ring; negatorio. The cake walk, hot dog stand, bounce houses,
crowds of children who had discovered the Easter story didn’t contain mention of bunny
rabbits, and general all out fellowshipping; I had missed it all, along with my ring.
Silver lining to black cloud: I didn’t miss the cleanup detail, on that I lucked
out.
My heart and soul weren’t tightly connected
during the Easter sermon, since my bare ring finger felt light, my attachment to
God had been weakened. I had lost my God-dar.
I fidgeted throughout the entire service, rubbing my bare finger. My daughter
kept nudging me, the way I did her when she lost focus at church services. I
think she enjoyed payback.
The alter call that
heralded the end of the service finally
came and a young family answered the call to church membership following
baptism. Something about the man seemed— recognizable. It was Fisherman, all
cleaned up with his daughter and wife. Well, I’ll be. He raised his hand to
brush some hair back from his eyes and there on his pinky finger was, of all
things, my ring. Well now I knew where
it was and I was going to get it back.
As I inched forward
in the welcoming line to greet the new prospects I heard Fisherman tell the
pastor that he had never visualized himself back in a church building let alone requesting
baptism but yesterday his daughter had come to our Easter festivities and
returned home with some plastic eggs she had shared with him.
“In one egg was some
candy and this ring, I took it as a sign.” Fisherman explained flashing my ring at the pastor. My ring, my fish shaped ring, my Ichthys.
“It was my mother’s favorite
Christian symbol, bless her sainted heart; it was like she was calling me back
to church from the grave, so here I am.”
Geez, how can I ask for my ring back after a
story like that? It’ll be hard but—who am I kidding? Apparently I didn’t have to be present
yesterday to be used by God to bring someone to the cross. Hey, I’m feeling the
presence of God again, my God-dar is returning. All I had to do was let go and let God. I
looked up and winked. “God it’s okay, he can have the ring, I don’t think I
need it anymore.”
At home as my family and I sat down to our
Easter Repast I heard a blurb on the news regarding a potential kidnapping.
Apparently some unidentified concerned citizen had alerted local police to the possibility
of a predator signaling out young children. Several squad cars put the alleged
predator under surveillance for a few days and managed to apprehend him in the
middle of attempted child abduction, using puppies as an enticement. Evidently
God, through me, and Scruffy, had saved several people this week. The newscaster showed an interview with the
little girl and her family where they profusely thanked the concerned citizen
and hoped she/he would come forward for
a more intimate gift of gratitude.
“Wow,” Cindy, my
daughter, exclaimed as she passed the mashed potatoes, “That family has a lot
to be thankful for. Do you think the concerned citizen will come forward?”
“Na,” my husband answered, “People that do
things like that don’t want to be in the spot light. Remember the bible says ,’
But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast
shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father
which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly’ whoever made that call
will get what they deserve from God
himself.”
I nodded in one
accord with my husband. I wasn’t about to come forward and explain it was my
dog’s insight that had saved one little girl and raised my “danger Will
Robinson” antennae.
I glanced down at
Scruffy to offer him a well-deserved slice of lamb to notice he was fixated on
the TV. Could he actually understand what was going on? His tail was arcing on
the floor, a seriously content dog expression plastered on his face while both
ears twitched in an unsynchronized fashion. Odd.
Beside him knelt two presences
unseen to human eyes, angels assigned
to this particular family, the same angles who had tugged on Scruffy’s leash to
assist him in pulling his owner to the right spot at the right time. The same
angels that had slipped a ring off a finger into an Easter egg to remedy a
mother’s concern. The same angels were
scratching Scruffy’s ears thanking him for his willingness to respond to their
input. No, for Scruffy it didn’t get any
better than this.
MATH 6:6
MATH 4:18-20
1 CORINTHIANS 3:6
2 CORINTHIANS 6:1
