The last time I disappeared from the blog, it was because I was pregnant and I wasn’t ready to share it with the world. Guess what? Not pregnant, just busy. Busy raising a child, teaching the children, you know your typical “woman running the world” stuff. I just haven’t had the energy to write, and to be honest I haven’t had much to share. There’s been a lot of adjusting, learning, and kind of just surviving over the last year. But Reagan is getting ready to turn one and I feel like I’ve settled into a groove and it might be time to start writing again. Besides, it’s spring in Southern Virginia and that means there is much fun to be had!
Today is Good Friday. I’ve been baking. I felt like I needed an Easter tradition that I could share with my little girl. I decided that Hot Cross Buns could be something we could do together every year on Good Friday so that we could enjoy them Easter weekend. When I am in need of a fantastic dish that doesn’t skimp on delicious (or on fat) I always turn to Pioneer Woman- Ree Drummond. Here’s the link to her Hot Cross Buns recipe that I used today.
It’s a bit of a process, but it isn’t hard. The only problem I had was getting the rolls to rise. We live in an insanely drafty house. It’s an old farmhouse with several additions and depending on what room you are in, you may need a Snuggie or full-blown snowsuit. So where to find a warm place for the rolls to rise?
A wise resourceful woman steals her daughter’s space heater and hides the rolls in the guest bathroom.
Now I’m just waiting for the rolls to bake and cool so that I can make the pretty little icing crosses on them. And that is where my mind is lingering, on the thought of the cross and just what that means.
For me Easter has always been the unofficial start of spring. It’s a time of new birth and new beginning. Even more so last year when my baby girl was born the day after Easter. It’s a time for eggs and pretty dresses and chocolate peanut butter eggs. In my head and in my heart I felt the true meaning of Easter for a long time, but it wasn’t until I became a parent that I felt it deep inside of me. What it truly means, Easter.
I rock my daughter in the quiet of her room. I kiss her little toes. I listen to her giggle and call “Mama” in the dark. And I think about the cost, the sacrifice that God made for me- and for her.
I think about Jesus as a child. He once had squishy cheeks and baby giggles. He was not only the savior of our world, he was some one’s son. Someone rocked him and listened to him breathe in the dark night. Someone watched him grow into a man, and someone watched him die.
And as my rolls are cooking and I am preparing to celebrate the rebirth of that savior, I hang my head with humble thanks because I know in the depths of my soul what a sacrifice like that really meant. I feel it in my aching heart. And in that I know how much He loves me.