The light in my dining room never gets old,

and every morning I am mesmerized by how it literally streams through the windows and illuminates everything, even the crap piled in the corners. It's the day before Easter, and my list of things to do (I don't make lists; it's all in my head) is long. Baseball practice for Henry, a haircut for Oliver, eggs to boil to dye and maybe even hot cross buns to make. I have an urge to bake, and tomorrow we have friends coming over for brunch. I'm glad that even though I don't do the whole Easter church thing anymore, I'll still get into the egg dying and Easter baskets for the kids. They already know about Jesus dying on the cross for our sins and then rising up on the third day. I think they know about forgiveness and redemption and joy and resurrection down deep in their souls and it radiates right out of their eyes and smiles. I saw it when Oliver goofy-danced around Sophie's room this morning and she looked at him side-long and smiled. I saw it the other day when Henry placed his gentle hand on her back to guide her as she walked, aimlessly, in the grass. I saw it when they ran out of the house and helped me to empty the groceries out of the car, without me asking. And I saw it when Oliver planted an entire vegetable garden by himself yesterday afternoon. Just when my patience had died and my joy in the daily is buried, something or other rolls back the rock and it's all reborn. This is my testament.