I am a marshmallow.

Maybe a Peep?

I bawled in church today. Not because it's Easter and not because of the message.

It's these words, and the act of trying to sing them with a group of people:
~
How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He would give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure

How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One
Bring many sons to glory

Behold the Man upon a cross
My guilt upon His shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished

I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no powr's, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom
~
It's especially those italicized verses that make my throat tight and hurty. The fact that my husband drives straight home, gets out his guitar and figures out the chords is pretty awesome, too. This year, I have that wonderful Christmassy feeling at Easter instead. It's probably better that way, really.

It's not that we prepared especially. We certainly don't have an Easter tree, and my mom had to buy all the egg decoratin' gear for Toby to have any memory of this year's holiday at all. We did stop at WalMart this morning and snag the very last bag of malted eggs in the whole state, apparently. We didn't even do lent despite my fascination with it. I guess you could say it's a pretty distant fascination, sort of like the way I feel about people who run ultra marathons or play in the Met Opera orchestra.

It's just that I feel the recent clouds- adoption failure, new baby haze, heinous church shopping, the various infections and medical mysteries the boys suddenly seem bent on collecting- have disipated. They're there, but it just feels like life and not so much like the other.

Yesterday I watched a community come together and celebrate a violist who was killed the year I moved here. I play some of her gigs, I have the priveledge of carpooling with some of her good friends. Preparing for the concert was a heavy responsibility and I found myself cherishing all the goofy things in my hectic and lovely life. It turned out to be fun, and fulfilling and I think she must have been quite something considering all the funny stories people were remembering. Sassy. I like that word even more now.

I love Easter. God bless you, internet.

Now with Labels! for Nablaeroiueajhflgjf.

I am jumping right on in to Nablaofdhtag, with a pithy, amuse-bouche of a post. Tomorrow. Maybe.

Today, however, I'm heading back to my beloved Podunk, Oregon to play a rehearsal and concert with their esteemed orchestra. Famous heart-throb violinist (betcha didn't expect to see that phrase outside the early 19th century, but just read his press packet! He puts the sexy in the string section.) Josh Bell is playing with them.



I like his playing, he's always fun to watch. He once sort of sprayed sweat on my music accidentally. When conductors do this it's annoying, but Mr. Indiana was somehow not so bad. This one time, at band camp Aspen, he played so sexy he broke his chinrest. It's made of hard wood and metal carpenter clamps, but he snapped it like a cockroach under his manly, musical chin.

He's rumored to be nice enough, and he's certainly had brief but memorable relationships with all sorts of my friends. He used to provide a big party for whatever festival he played, which is pretty much the smartest way ever to ensure a loyal following in the classical community. Forget the blue-haired ladies, buy yourself some patrons with a bottle of rum and a case of Coke.

Time for me to pile into our mileage car and head out. You may be the last people I say more than a polite sentence to for the next ten hours, so wish me well my friends. I don't even have a stand partner to play games with. Hmph.