Matching Tracksuits

In Catholicism, Easter is a season, not merely a day. As such, sharing photos from Easter Sunday almost a week later would be perfectly acceptable…

With a Polish priest driving from Columbia to fit Polish Mass into a schedule that includes English and Spanish Masses throughout the day, our Easter was a late Easter,with Mass at 15:00 and the requisite gathering — for what is Easter for Poles but a Thanksgiving with spiritual meaning? — following ninety minutes later.

Coming together from near and far — Asheville, Atlanta, and five miles up the interstate — the adults did what Poles do best: talk, eat, talk, laugh, talk, sing, and talk.

The kids — two boys and four girls — did what they do best.

The guests have left. The Girl has fallen asleep behind me.

Certainly it’s exhaustion from yesterday’s activities: with two girls her age arriving in the early afternoon, the Girl was a bundle of hyperactivity.

“We’re going to run there and here and there and here!” L proclaimed just before the girl’s arrival.

After eating an enormous lunch, that’s just what they did as they searched for eggs.

The younger girls were overwhelmed with excitement each and every time they found an egg. Their joy was a lovely thing, but it meant that the older children had more time to find eggs: they were very utilitarian in their celebrations, whooping on their way to the next egg instead of stopping to show off their discoveries.

Slow and steady might win the race in parables, but in the cut-throat reality of an Easter egg hunt, slow and steady wins only a light basket.

Often, though, the younger girls trailed behind the older children, following in almost lock-step.

“Honey, why don’t you look in different places rather than following her?” I asked L. “You’re just going to find the places where she’s already found the eggs.”

She thought about if for a moment, then continued with her method.

Still, despite the age difference, the little ones found several eggs, often simultaneously.;j

But the prize, the big egg, the egg L had been excited about all weekend, the egg that L proclaimed she simply must have — well, too much celebration for life’s little successes can give time for others to search out the big surprises.

And as I anticipated, it left poor L devastated. She stopped her own search and sat down for some sad alone time (also known as pouting).

But all was soon well. L’s disappointments rarely last longer than a few minutes, especially when the “offending” party shows some sympathy.

Unless I am the offending party — then the grudge lasts a few minutes longer.

It's an annual event at our house: the Easter egg painting party. We've had some large crowds for it in past years, but this year, it was a family affair.

The Girl loves painting, so we weren't surprised when she ended up working on eggs for well over an hour. She approached the task with a Jackson Pollock eye: layers and seeming chaos were the themes of her eggs.

As was "getting paint all over oneself." But what's the fun of painting if you don't expand the canvas?

K took a more disciplined approach.