The Rest of the Story…
How was your Easter? the text read.
The ham was good. My response.
What else can I say?
The day did not go as planned.
The beautiful prayer I imagined we’d have at dinner, did not happen.
There was no peace making or do-overs over deviled eggs.
No hallelujah chorus could be heard, only repeated howls of pain as I layed on the front lawn bleeding all over the Bermuda grass.
“What happened?” my mother asked.
“He pushed me!”
“I didn’t push her! She tripped and fell.”
“I tripped and fell because you pushed me!”
We both spotted the white egg with the pink polka dots at the same time. It was hiding just under the lantana, growing next to the Esperanza bush that had recently been cut back. The part of my leg the bush didn’t pummel, the green metal edging did.
Somewhere, buried in the dirt or mulch, was my turquoise toenail.
“It was already hanging half off anyway,” my mom said, not void of compassion.
She always takes his side.
“It wasn’t hanging half off, it was finally starting to get better.”
“What happened Grammy?” asked Saydee Grace.
That’s when I knew Peter Cotton Tail wasn’t coming and I had to hop up and stop the bleeding.
My aunt apologized repeatedly and got me a bottled water and some Aleve. I sat in the corner chair the rest of the afternoon with an ice pack on my leg, reading The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up, while stuffing chocolate covered marshmallow eggs in my mouth, one after the other, and trying not to get blood on the quilted footrest or carpet.
I tried to share a children’s story I submitted to Highlights last week and couldn’t even get through 247 words without a barrage of insults and joke making.
Did I mention how good the ham was?
And the whole roasted carrots with their green tops snipped Martha Stewart style were eggcellent.
See what I did there?
I’m working this week in opened toed shoes and learning to tell stories in the Spanish conversations class. “Mi hermano is el maton.”
My brother is a bully.
I try to act out the motions. “Donde es el huevo? Donde es el huevo?”
Where is the egg?
Where are the things we search for?
Always just out of our reach it seems, gone before we know it, like my aunt Maureen’s pickle dip.
Life is fickle like that.
We don’t always find what we hoped to.
The incident began because we were in a race to find the $50.00 egg, but that’s not what we found. My brother guilt-gave me the egg we fought over and I offered the $5.00 prize inside to whoever could find my toenail.
Five very mature adults ran out to the front lawn, and many minutes later a loud shout was heard by the newcomer, “I found it!”
“Are you serious?”
My daughter’s boyfriend John proudly held the evidence in the palm of his hand for all to see, a huge smile on his face.
“Ewwww! You couldn’t just point to it?” Natalie chastised.
We don’t always find the things we look for, but sometimes we do. Or it finds us.
I will give you rest.
My peace I give you.
I will hold you in the palm of my hand.
God always seems to have the life-changing magic, of tidying me up.