a violent grace

Today is Easter. The time when we eat lots of candy, wear pastels, take family pictures and, most importantly, of course, commemorate and celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. He is risen, He is risen indeed.

So ruthless He loves us

So reckless His embrace

To show relentless kindness to a

Hardened human race

The joy that was before Him

On the Man of Sorrows' face

And by His blood

He bought a violent grace

We were dead, but Christ died that we might have life in Him. And not only did He die a human death, but He conquered death.

After a Holy Week as busy as l'enfer, which included a full week of school, some planning for my senior recital, two music practices for separate events, an attempt at bowling, a wedding rehearsal, rehearsal dinner, girls night out post-rehearsal dinner, wedding (for which I was in charge of all ceremony music) and Easter Sunday music, I decided to wrap up the week by pulling out the table in the kitchen, only to have it knock into the preceding bench, causing the bench to kindly smash the top of my foot. Never in my life have I been so close to screaming obscenities*. I was convinced my foot was broken. After waking up from my flexeril-induced siesta, I'm not so sure it's broken. But one thing's for sure--I'm going to have a beast of a bruise.

*In the presence of children*.

*And their parents.

My birthday is in 2 months. 2 months left to be a legal child. I could go through the cliché spiel about never wanting to grow up (which I could make very interesting and verbose) vs. everyone has to grow up (which I could make very emotional) vs. I've been waiting my whole life to grow up (which I could make very convincing), but instead I'll just leave you with this: I've got growing up to do.

Love, Shelley.