My Take
DiVoran Lites
DiVoran and David Bowers
My brother and I on Easter circa 1949. Mother made the dark blue and white dotted Swiss dress for me. David wore that sweater all winter for several winters. This story isn’t about us; it’s about this past Easter many years later.
Do you like routines and schedules? I like them so much I plan carefully so that they won’t go agley, as Robert Burns, the Scottish poet, put it: “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men gang aft agley.” (“To a Mouse”)
People in our church want me, as the children’s Sunday school teacher to put on an Easter egg hunt every year. So I bought the eggs last year. We already had the baskets to gather them into. I got the candy in the last weeks before Easter, but had to go back for more. I spent an hour or two putting candy in the eggs.
The plan was to go out on the playground during adult Sunday school and “hide” the eggs, but when we left the house, a misty rain was falling onto the windshield of the car and my plans began to go agley so I asked Bill to be praying about what I should do. He surprised me by praying that the rain would stop in time for the hunt. But, still, when could I hide the eggs?
In the middle of praise team practice, I recalled that I hadn’t brought my camera. I didn’t want to miss taking pictures of the beautiful children in their Easter finery, so I asked Bill to go home and get it. I could hide eggs while he was gone.
It had stopped raining by the time praise team practice was over, but three feisty boys were using the playground and I didn’t want to make them go inside. I decided I’d just let them and the two girls who had arrived hide the eggs with me.
The girls and I walked out and I started to get the eggs out of the trunk of the car, but guess where the car was? It was with Bill going home to get the camera. The girls and I went back inside. Church started. We’d have to make do with the kids hiding the eggs during the time they were supposed to be hunting for them. Finally, it was time. By now, we had five girls and three boys. It seemed everyone was having a good time except for Trivona. She’s being reared by an aunt who loves her and who is a capable and efficient person.
“Why do we have to hide our own eggs,” Trivona asked.
“It’s fun, isn’t it?” I asked hopefully.
“The Easter egg hunt we went to yesterday was more fun—the children didn’t have to hide their own eggs,” she answered.
“It’s a long story.” I patted her head patronizingly.
She looked up at me with interest in her big brown eyes.
“You don’t want to hear the story do you?”
“Yes I do.”
“Oh, well…” I told it all, the rain, the car.“Is that a good story?” I asked when I finished.
“No,” she said.
“Oh, then I’m sorry I told you,” wishing I hadn’t bored her.
“It was a good story,” she said carefully, “but if you plan better next time, the children won’t have to hide their own eggs.”
“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” James 4:14.
Someday maybe Trivona will read Robert Burns and surely, then, she will understand.
Bill’s having fun too. He calls each night and gives me a report of his day’s doings and plans for the next day. It’s cooler in California than it is here, he layers his long sleeved shirt and his jacket. He’s taking notes for his blogs, so we can look forward to hearing all about his adventures.
my office-family-room-kitchen. Staccato sounds fill the air as a heavy-duty staple-gun blasts into terrazzo floor, pinning down a new carpet in the house across the street, a woodpecker hammers on metal, and a cardinal sings his spring song, tu-tu-tu.
Old Things R New 