Deviled Eggs and Masquerades

Some of our kids gathered around our table last Sunday to celebrate the holiday together. We worked hard in the kitchen and presented some traditions from both sets of grandmas' recipe books. I sat down triumphant that it had all turned out except the dinner rolls we forgot to rise and had to give up on. Then the food started being passed around the table and I had a fleeting, unbeckoned memory of Easters' past when one of my daughters would scoop up too many deviled eggs and characteristically shove one in her mouth as the plate passed by. She and her older brother were the only ones not seated at the table this year, one from choice and the other out of necessity. It was just a glimpse into the past, but my momma heart just couldn't take it. Suddenly this long awaited meal just didn't taste any good, and when it was time to clean up and the egg plate came back around with leftovers on it that was just too much. Just as soon as I could, I broke away from the group and cried, over deviled eggs.

I love to travel, but when we fly international, I absolutely hate the time spent in immigration. Its so sterile, and unfriendly, and I always feel like an anonymous number being herded through the lines. This quarantine has me feeling that way. I like to follow the rules and when I have to go to the store to pick something up, I always feel like I'm stuck in the immigration line. The rules are changing and the grocery store is a huge one way traffic circle and everybody's wearing masks and keeping to themselves. It's sad and depressing to me.

Yesterday, I decided that I'd had enough and took myself on over to visit my mom. She had precautions in place and I went alone, bringing along a tomato plant and a loaf of sourdough bread as offerings. As I drove to her house, I listened to some old Lionel Richie songs and reminisced my childhood, and I was reminded of a trip long ago when I traveled to visit my dad in California with my three young children alone. My husband wasn't even going to be at the airport to welcome me home, since he was on a trip himself. My 1 1/2 year old daughter, the same one showcased in my deviled egg memory, had a terrible experience on the return flight and let everyone on the plane know it. She screamed and thrashed around on my lap and there was nothing I could do to soothe her. It was the stuff of nightmares and everyone on board was wishing they could throw me off the plane, I'm quite certain. When I arrived home, my mom was right there at the gate waiting for us. I wearily dragged my three young children and when I saw her familiar face at the end of the tunnel, I felt my load grow lighter. 

That's how I felt driving to my momma's house, like all the plates of leftover deviled eggs that I'd been carrying just lifted. All my disappointments, fear, worry, felt lighter. Just sitting on her patio 6 feet away from my own mother not being able to hug her or act as if she even belonged to me other than to see her face and hear her voice. It was enough. I wasn't anonymous to her, and she could see through any mask I try to hide behind. 

I needed to be re-centered. I needed to be known and seen and acknowledged. Saturday could have easily taken my time again, with a house that needed cleaning and a yard that needed tending, but I had to push through to find that time. How much more so do we need to take a step away from the chaos of our new normal and find time to seek Him who knows us better than anyone?