I take a quick inventory of the morning and I realize that we had not even made it completely downstairs yet before I had conjured my pre-church, Easter Facebook status update. Instead of the celebratory tone I was seeing from others, mine read:
'Three out of five insanely grumpy children on Easter morning is almost comical. Almost.'
I hadn't thought that I had been hanging on to unrealistic expectations, either. All of my children knew that our family celebration with the grandparents would have to wait till Tuesday because we had been sick and did not feel like sharing - our lovely grandmas can get very ill when exposed to run-of-the-mill stuff. No one even protested.
I had purposed not to be disappointed by the fact that the house was a mess and that the laundry would still be over-flowing; that the chocolate bunnies I had barely remembered to get at Safeway the night before would be accompanied by a quick-in-the-oven pizza and a 'here, scoot that pile of paper on over', instead of a well planned feast or a perfectly set table; these are just the realities that come with being in transition; getting ready to move, starting work again.
The fact that my children were not in coordinating outfits (or outfits that really matched at all, now that I think about it) did not faze me too much because I knew that more than half of us were at least clean--all at the same time!--which is saying something when you have seven people to account for.
I had imagined that we would roll-with-it just fine.
By the time that our feet hit the first landing shortly after sunrise, however, I was ready to concede that even with these adjustments, maybe I had overestimated…you know…us.
The youngest two frenemies could not even make it to the breakfast table, as is their customary courtesy, before the urge to push buttons kicked in.
I did not plan on someone having to get dressed and then undressed and then dressed again, or for the remaining free agents to begin turning radical. I certainly never expected to be on the same silly stair for close to forty minutes.
I overlooked that we would need to get gas, to sign the children into their classes and engage in the exact same weekly conversation with the three-year-old who insists on penning her own version of 'Ailish' onto her identity bracelet every single Sunday.
I did not factor in for boys that would rather cling to the doorway than enter a room thirty minutes late, with everyone looking at them.
As I was singing, I realized that I had not planned for these things, but someone had known better and He had invited us anyway.
It would not have mattered even if I had pulled off a more sanitized version of us, because still, He would have seen us just as we were, and still He would have opened His arms and invited us to come.