Come, Let us: Adore

Paige: 

I was totally Facebook stalking you recently. You have no idea how significant it is to hear that people actually read this thing.

Sometimes it seems as if I am talking to the vague cyber-space, telling the "anonymous"--if at all existent--readers about my world, thoughts, ideas, idiosyncrasies. Then: the cyber-space talks back. 

Breathe, Kellie: there are people out there who care.

Right now I am sitting at my desk at my parent's house. Two mice have made nest-burrows in my hair and are resting at the nape of my neck. One has a cold and she keeps sneezing in my ear. 

We are awaiting the Western Easter. Even if, to me, Christ does not descend into hell and rise triumphant until next Sunday, there is still something significant that speaks Home to me within the apocryphal egg-hunts, the mall Easter bunny who looks like something out of a horror film, and the pastel princesses prancing about with their white baskets and their bowed pigtails, eager to find out what presents of candy and trinkets have been nestled in the plastic green Easter grass. 

Plus, if the Westerners are celebrating Easter, it means Pascha's only a week away. Christ walks among us for seven days after the resurrection of Lazarus, while we wave palm leaves and offer up donkeys; then we push him along with a kiss, a bag of gold, a crown, and finally--at the end--a "Christ: Remember me."

Remember us in Your kingdom, for Your welcome stretches as far as the East is from the West, and Your children cry Comfort in the face of uncertainty,

and in the warmth of Praise.

A Mercy of Peace. A Sacrifice of Praise.