Easter Sunday – I commence the day marking Christ’s resurrection with the sun on my face, melodic birdsong and a realisation I’m going to have to get that flaming hole in my bedroom roof fixed.
Akin to millions of my global brethren existing upon the surreal planet COVID-19, my Easter Day will be marked practising the now habitual pastime of familial hermitry. Unlike Jesus who when resurrected had free rein to leave his cavernous tomb to be reunite with his disciples, 2,020 years hence we’re requested not to leave residential boundaries, unless essential.
If coronavirus had’ve been around at the time of Christ’s death, if the same ‘going out’ and social distancing edicts were in place, that hypostasis of the holy trinity may’ve had to postpone his mission to advise disciples he’d risen.
Bearing in mind the Roman rulers zero tolerance approach to disobedience of rules, I doubt people who ordered his crucifixion for nothing more than claiming to be the king of the Jews, would show empathy if stopping him en route to his followers. I can’t see god’s son selling his journey as essential to a bombastic Roman centurion. They’d also be apoplectic with rage at the disciples none adherence to social distancing rules.
Last year, on Easter Sunday the meteorological gods were as magnanimous with the solar rays as this year. However, even discarding COVID-19’s insipid intrusion, my existence was a very hugely different landscape.
In 2019, we marked Christ’s resurrection with a family get together. The event marking my daughter’s recent return after two years in Canada, along with early celebrations of my upcoming birthday four days later.
My mum, wife, daughter Rachel, son Jonathon, his fiancee Jenny and I dined alfresco at my marital home. The events smorgasbord incorporating a roast dinner, joy at having Rach back and early presentation of birthday gifts to yours truly. It was an occasion with much jocularity, life affirming food and my mum’s habitual positing everything is nice for once being 100% true.
What a difference a year makes though. Since Easter Sunday 2019, I’ve left my marital home, my daughter’s relocated to cohabit with her partner in Kent; consequently the six individuals who enjoyed that idyllic afternoon have since been splintered into familial fragments.
Consequently, while I’ll spend Easter Day with my mother, my estranged wife will spend it in COVID-19 induced self-isolation, Jonny and Jenny will mark the event at their York home, while Rachel will be isolating with her partner Brian at the Kent flat.
This year, I’m going to cook either shepherds pie or mince and dumplings for my mum’s and my Easter meal. It’ll be blander cuisine than last year, not to mention a significantly diminished company.
Not that I’m complaining. After all, Easter in this prison by pathogen will be markedly better for me than many others around the globe. My glass half full approach to this prevailing lockdown malarky borne from a realisation my plight isn’t anywhere near as bad as a majority of individuals. After all, I still possess the wherewithal to fulfil two of my favourite pastimes; writing and gardening.
Everyone has at least one thing to be grateful for. For example, even at his lowest point of enforced incarceration, adventurer Bear Grylls should go down on bended knee and thank the lord his surname is Necessities!!
Happy Easter Folks!!….. Stay safe!!