Tuesday, Day Three: Chocolate
My Easter basket always included a chocolate egg from Temo Candy Company, a local store that was owned by a Greek family we knew. We dreamt all year of the Temo’s Easter eggs. They were huge (or at least, they seemed huge to me then), and skillfully hand decorated with each of our names and small, colorful flowers. They arrived in a cardboard box with a crinkly, see-through window of plastic that was almost too lovely to open. They were also, of course, incredibly delicious.
During Lent, in addition to fasting from meat, we always gave something else up, something we really craved. Usually, for me, it was chocolate. Holy Week required a strict fast—no meat or dairy. So, the chocolate eggs tasted especially good after so many days of fasting—but eating them too quickly could also be dangerous. We never forgot the first time we got an Easter morning belly ache. We learned to slice and eat the Temo’s chocolate eggs slowly over time, to savor them.
Chocolate has no biblical associations with Easter, but the sensations that make good chocolate tasty—a mix of sweetness and bitterness—certainly do.
The women who prepared Jesus’ body for burial must have savored the smells of the spices and perfumes that covered up the smell of death. They must have touched Jesus tenderly, slowly, not wanting to let go. They must have remembered how they were touched by him—literally or metaphorically—and healed, and changed. They are named in the Bible (and not many women are) because Jesus knew their names, because the writers of the Gospels knew their names.
The empty tomb was good news, of course, but it was also terrifying news, and it had come at such a cost, such suffering, such upheaval. The 40 day Lenten journey is supposed to prepare us for the sweetness of resurrection. But how often do we stay there, savoring the taste of chocolate over several days, noticing the flowery packaging of the chocolate egg, the precision of our names in frosting? How often do we remember that, like the women who attended to Jesus’ body, who first discovered the empty tomb, God knows us by name?
We are called to indulge in the sweetness of life, even as we work to eliminate the bitterness, the suffering. These two callings are not mutually exclusive. One feeds the other. We can be attentive to suffering only if we allow ourselves to indulge in joy. We can know joy only if we allow ourselves to feel suffering. The practice of attentiveness helps us to find deeper meaning in both. It has taken me years to learn this, and I still need to be mindful on a daily basis to recognize joy in the midst of suffering.
A dear friend of ours passed away shortly before Easter this year. Her funeral was on Holy Saturday. We had shared a close relationship with two young girls—they had lived in her home for a year, and in ours for several days and weekends--and most recently, a month--before, during, and after that year. This was a labor of love she and her husband provided that inspired our desire to make Petalouda House a reality. We got to know each other mostly because of our shared love for those girls, conversations and e-mails and get togethers at each others’ homes to show those girls we loved them, all of us—but she was also our daughter’s teacher, one of the good ones who pushed her and never treated her like a special needs kid, and a beloved sister in our church, a spiritual rock who handled her cancer with such incredible grace—and humor.
We went to the funeral dressed in the only way that seemed appropriate—wearing silly socks, one of her trademarks. We weren’t the only ones. In the midst of sorrow, we found a way to honor her silliness. The next day, at Easter service, we wept and laughed as we worshipped with our church family, including her husband, children, and grandson. The girls we had welcomed as family moved between our families, hugging us, grieving and laughing with us. And eating--during the service, before and after communion, those girls (and our daughter) stuffed chocolate candies into their mouths, while I whispered to them, slow down.
But they didn’t.
Even in the midst of our grief, we are hungry for sweetness.
At one point, one of the girls asked, “Why are you crying?”
My answer came out in a long, teary, whispered gush of words—probably too many for her to take in. “Because I’m so happy to be with here with you. Because I’m sad that we lost someone we loved. Because I’m happy to see her family here. Because I love to listen to you sing.” I took a deep breath. “Because I’m so full of God’s love I don’t know what else to do,” I said, more slowly, looking straight into her eyes.
She nodded, and whispered, “Me, too.”
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We would appreciate a donation to Petlaouda House if you are reading along with these Easter reflections. But, we want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
During Lent, in addition to fasting from meat, we always gave something else up, something we really craved. Usually, for me, it was chocolate. Holy Week required a strict fast—no meat or dairy. So, the chocolate eggs tasted especially good after so many days of fasting—but eating them too quickly could also be dangerous. We never forgot the first time we got an Easter morning belly ache. We learned to slice and eat the Temo’s chocolate eggs slowly over time, to savor them.
Chocolate has no biblical associations with Easter, but the sensations that make good chocolate tasty—a mix of sweetness and bitterness—certainly do.
The women who prepared Jesus’ body for burial must have savored the smells of the spices and perfumes that covered up the smell of death. They must have touched Jesus tenderly, slowly, not wanting to let go. They must have remembered how they were touched by him—literally or metaphorically—and healed, and changed. They are named in the Bible (and not many women are) because Jesus knew their names, because the writers of the Gospels knew their names.
The empty tomb was good news, of course, but it was also terrifying news, and it had come at such a cost, such suffering, such upheaval. The 40 day Lenten journey is supposed to prepare us for the sweetness of resurrection. But how often do we stay there, savoring the taste of chocolate over several days, noticing the flowery packaging of the chocolate egg, the precision of our names in frosting? How often do we remember that, like the women who attended to Jesus’ body, who first discovered the empty tomb, God knows us by name?
We are called to indulge in the sweetness of life, even as we work to eliminate the bitterness, the suffering. These two callings are not mutually exclusive. One feeds the other. We can be attentive to suffering only if we allow ourselves to indulge in joy. We can know joy only if we allow ourselves to feel suffering. The practice of attentiveness helps us to find deeper meaning in both. It has taken me years to learn this, and I still need to be mindful on a daily basis to recognize joy in the midst of suffering.
A dear friend of ours passed away shortly before Easter this year. Her funeral was on Holy Saturday. We had shared a close relationship with two young girls—they had lived in her home for a year, and in ours for several days and weekends--and most recently, a month--before, during, and after that year. This was a labor of love she and her husband provided that inspired our desire to make Petalouda House a reality. We got to know each other mostly because of our shared love for those girls, conversations and e-mails and get togethers at each others’ homes to show those girls we loved them, all of us—but she was also our daughter’s teacher, one of the good ones who pushed her and never treated her like a special needs kid, and a beloved sister in our church, a spiritual rock who handled her cancer with such incredible grace—and humor.
We went to the funeral dressed in the only way that seemed appropriate—wearing silly socks, one of her trademarks. We weren’t the only ones. In the midst of sorrow, we found a way to honor her silliness. The next day, at Easter service, we wept and laughed as we worshipped with our church family, including her husband, children, and grandson. The girls we had welcomed as family moved between our families, hugging us, grieving and laughing with us. And eating--during the service, before and after communion, those girls (and our daughter) stuffed chocolate candies into their mouths, while I whispered to them, slow down.
But they didn’t.
Even in the midst of our grief, we are hungry for sweetness.
At one point, one of the girls asked, “Why are you crying?”
My answer came out in a long, teary, whispered gush of words—probably too many for her to take in. “Because I’m so happy to be with here with you. Because I’m sad that we lost someone we loved. Because I’m happy to see her family here. Because I love to listen to you sing.” I took a deep breath. “Because I’m so full of God’s love I don’t know what else to do,” I said, more slowly, looking straight into her eyes.
She nodded, and whispered, “Me, too.”
Making a donation to Petalouda House:
We would appreciate a donation to Petlaouda House if you are reading along with these Easter reflections. But, we want to make this clear up front: your donation is not yet tax deductable. We are not sure yet whether our project will become a non-profit or continue to be a labor of love as it is now. We have ongoing needs--basic needs like clothing, food, work uniforms, lessons, etc. for those who live or will live with us--but we also have some larger goals. Our next goal is to make improvements to the property that will ensure that the foundation is sound (this will involve hauling a lot of dirt this summer!). Also, we hope to make one of our entrances disability accessible. The much more long-term goal is to finish an apartment over the garage so we can provide housing for a family or transitional and more independent housing to adults who live or will live with us. Finally, we currently only have one very old working vehicle. We will need a second, newer vehicle soon.
You can make a donation by sending a check made out to Argie Manolis or Tara Gromatka to 411 E. 4th St., Morris, MN 56267, with Petalouda House in the memo line, or transferring money via PayPal to argiemanolis@gmail.com.
Christ is Risen! Happy Easter!
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