Even though this blog belongs to our family, I feel like a guest blogger whenever I write since C. is responsible for all but one of the posts. For the record, then, this is R.
The other day, as I was walking home from the bus, I saw our neighbor outside his house and decided to stop for a brief chat. A kind man, D. exudes an air of steadiness that comes from years of parenting experience. We conversed casually about the relative condition of our lawns, the state of the neighborhood, and, as is wont to happen in conversations with Christians, the end times. A long-time believer, D. ruminated on the sad state of affairs in which we poor humans found ourselves: "The Bible doesn't say things'll get better, only that through Jesus, God has given us the power to overcome all things." Hmmm. Not sure if he was trying to scare me or comfort me. Either way, coming as his comment did on the heels of his "you guys are more free-wheeling with your kids than we ever were," I didn't exactly find in it any spiritual solace. You see, we have three kids--soon to be four--the oldest of whom is in kindergarten. The middle one likes to escape to the neighbors, unbeknownst to my wife, and the youngest has a bad habit of jaywalking. He's two. Oh, and I'm paranoid. Not certifiable, but that doesn't mean I'm not.
When I walked inside, my poor, unsuspecting wife was blindsided with an impromptu interrogation. Do the boys do this? What about that? Can you see them at all times? Well why not? How frequently do you check on them? How long can you sprint at full tilt until your hands start to shake? Do you have 911 on your speed dial?
Somewhere in my Chicken Little moment I managed to tell her that D. had recently made a resolution of sorts. He was going to ask all of us in the cul-de-sac if we knew Jesus. I didn't have the heart to start jabbering and then ask if he could speak in tongues, too. I'm kidding. When I said that, yes, we did have a church, he replied, "OK, well you should bring your boys to our Easter Egg hunt." He pointed proudly to the sign in his yard. "Eggstravaganza." I had seen a similar one when I got off the bus.
Wanting not to discourage him for having gone out on a limb in asking me if I knew Jesus, and hoping to foster a little of that neighborly love the Bible talks about, I accepted the invitation. How bad could a community outreach event be?
Saturday soon arrived and after S.'s soccer game, we headed to the Assembly of God on Vernon St. When we got there, a good-sized crowd (some of whom looked like they needed a little more Jesus in their lives) mingled aimlessly as top-40 music pealed from a pair of speakers that bookended the prizes table, all of which sat on top of a rather plain looking flatbed trailer. Wait, that's not top-40 music, I found myself mumbling. It sounds familiar, but something's not quite right. The melodies sounded familiar, but as it turns out, someone had taken, shall we say, a little poetic license with the lyrics. Now, having grown up in a religious tradition whose hymns sound pretty much the same way they did in 1830 (yawn!), it was rather jolting to hear Bobby McFerrin exhorting "Don't worry, trust Jesus." I couldn't decide whether to burst out laughing at the kitsch combination of pop. culture and religious devotion, or to high five the pastor for having discovered the key to making spirituality resonant in the 21st century. So instead I just looked around for our neighbor. Where was he?
Before long the pastor announced it was time for the Easter Egg hunt to start. We'd have to look for D. later. Mercifully, they divided the crowd--which at this point had swelled to an ominous size--into age groups. First up were the 1-3 year olds. They allowed parents to accompany their children, but minced no words when telling us we were NOT, under any circumstances, to pick up any eggs. I could have swore I heard someone whisper "on pain of death." I'm pretty sure it wasn't the Holy Spirit. We divided up the boys and it fell to me to go with our youngest. The wave of kids and parents was so thick that we were left like scavengers to sort through what was left over after the proverbial sea returned to calm.
The particular layout of the actual gathering left something to be desired. An area of the lawn was roped off with those plastic flags one sees at county fairs and high school track meets. One half of the inner sanctum was covered in plastic Easter eggs; empty, we were told, so as not to encourage the hoarding of candy by the more coordinated egg collectors, or petulant parents, as the case may be. The other half of the lawn was empty, though I still have yet to divine whose bright idea that was. You see, the gate to access the eggs lay on the other side of the roped-off area, leaving a veritable no man's land between the entrance and the eggs. No-man's land is a term not entirely without its merit, for once the gate was opened, it was a bruising battle just to make it the twenty or so yards to the plastic paradise. On this particular field of battle, it would appear that God was not the only one who was no respecter of persons. Only once in my 30-something years have I ever seen middle-aged mothers with such an intimate knowledge of close quarters combat. And that was in Guatemala, where failing to secure a seat on the one bus out of town meant. . . well, frankly, I don't know what it meant, I just remember the assassin's glint in that pregnant woman's eye who hip-checked me out of line to guarantee herself the last spot on the last ride to the next town three hours away. Surely there were those at this Eggstravaganza worthy of a medal simply for surviving the mayhem. Like our middle boy, F.
Some of you will know that despite his age, F. resembles his younger brother in terms of physical stature. It will therefore come as no surprise that when the 4-6 year olds lined up for their shot at a newly-spread batch of plastic eggs, he looked woefully over-matched. C. handed me the camera and I sauntered towards the egg area, youngest in arm, hoping to snap a few shots of F. and his older brother in action. When I finally found an open spot next to the plastic flags, I turned on the camera and looked back to find my smiling boys. I should have known something was wrong when an eerie silence fell over the crowd. I saw, in slow motion, it seemed, little boys clawing the ground to get a better footing, parents on the sideline whose throbbing faces under different circumstances would have made me to run like hell for fear of my life. So I was more than a little disconcerted that I couldn't find my boys. What could I do? There was no time to run back to the gate, to find them, to swoop them up before this ritual running of these paschal bulls began.
"Gooooooooooooo." Everything fell silent except for that one-syllable, two-letter word that bellowed from the event staff member's bull horn. All I could see was a cloud of dust billowing up from the mass of nondescript bodies.
"Noooooooo!" I echoed, but it was too late. Pandora's heretical box was open and its fury unleashed. I searched frantically for any sign of my boys. A shirt sleeve, a familiar shoe, a patch of wavy amber hair. Nothing. Slowly the tumult died down. The mob dispersed, revealing a parcel of earth too barren even for Ruth and Naomi.
I ran back to the starting line, the emotions welling up inside: fear, doubt, desperation. What kind of father was I? The older boy was fine, probably. But how could I ever in a million years have subjected my little F. to such a wretched ordeal? And then I saw him, clinging to his mother's leg, eyes swollen and red, tears streaming down his dust-covered cheeks. "Can we go home, Papi?" his eyes implored.
We walked back to the prize table, more than one of us feeling defeated. Had I sinned, not knowing what I was doing bringing my family to such an event? Or at least bringing them without body armor? As we waited for the congregants to count everyone's eggs--which could be traded in for tickets for the raffle--I pondered these inscrutable mysteries.
Although we won nothing from the raffle, I'm proud to say I watched without an ounce of envy as first the bikes, then the oversized stuffed animals, then the miniature water pistols were paraded off the trailer by their elated owners.
On our way to the car, we passed by some large garbage cans from which they were handing out bags of candy to everyone who had come. In the end, our boys received their reward, too.
The rest of the day was spent readying our home for the Sabbath. I mowed the lawn while C. tackled the domestic chores inside. When we finally lay down for bed that night, we were only too happy to see the day come to an end. I looked over to C. and with a wry gleam in both our eyes, we understood what neither of us needed to speak: "Never again will a pagan ritual overshadow our celebration of the true meaning of Easter!"
When I awoke in the morning, C. had already gotten out of bed. I looked outside and noticed the ground was wet. I walked into the family room just as C. was coming inside.
"Been gone long?"
"A while."
"Stormed last night, and it looks like it blew D.'s sign away."
C. smiled slightly, "Yeah, looks like it."
