The Easter Cake Rides Again

A true story.

The palm branches have been waved.

The plastic eggs have been gathered.

The family photos—pastel-colored clothing set against backdrops of tulip beds—have been taken.

Why, then, am I still talking about Easter?

Well, it’s still technically Easter.

Yep, apparently Eastertide lasts 50 days, stretching from Easter Sunday to Pentecost Sunday.

So there.

And secondly, last year, I wrote a poem called The Easter Cake. I posted it here, somewhat randomly, back in September. But I just remembered its existence, and am tickled to have remembered it in time for an Eastertide re-posting.

My apologies if you’ve read it already. Feel free to take a pass. If you haven’t read it, stick around. It’s one of my favorites.

You’ll find the whole post below.

Enjoy.

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Sometimes, in the middle of the night, my brain and heart clasp hands in a way they don’t often choose to do in my waking hours.

In these moments, while the rest of my body fights valiantly to return to slumber, these two decide it’s time—yes, it’s time RIGHT NOW—to engage in what feels like a lively subconscious polka.

They hitch on their lederhosen, buckle on their strappy dancing shoes, and commence to frolicking.

From my heart emerges the whirling and cavorting of emotions, a pirouetting of unfiltered hopes, and the capering of unmitigated longings.

From my brain, the heavy-footed galumphing of Sunday school theology keeps time, ensuring both parties are dancing within the lines, so to speak, but allowing just enough heretical hip-swaying to keep things spicy.

Middle-of-the-night musings are fascinating, aren’t they?

The mesh of our subconscious filters is just that much wider, allowing odd bits to come swimming through. Bits which wouldn’t be given a second thought if the sun were shining, the first cup of coffee already consumed, and our filters buttoned up nice and tight.

What I’m about to share with you is one of the odd bits.

Some might argue the world would be a better place had I simply rolled over and gone back to sleep.

But from where I’m standing, when the universe serves you chocolate cake, you should go ahead and enjoy it.

So I did.

I shuffled into the living room, and clicked on a lamp. Bleary-eyed, I scribbled down, as best I could, the words which had been kicking up dust on the dance floor.

Is it a poem? I’m not sure. It is heresy? Hopefully not.

Whatever it is, it says what I wanted to say about my undeserving. About my half-hearted endeavors. About how, in the end, despite what I’ve tried to earn with my potato-salad-self-righteousness, I must simply cast myself upon the unmerited work of someone else.

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The Easter Cake

a poem

I accepted your invitation to lunch on Easter Sunday

only because you sprung it on me like you did.

I didn’t have a good excuse;

my hesitation sealed my fate.

It’s a potluck, you said.

Bring a dish to share, you said.

Wandering the aisles at the grocery store, I settled on a plastic bucket of potato salad.

Good enough, I thought,

and decanted the congealed mass into a vintage bowl so it’d look like I tried.

Now that bowl sits on your long wooden table,

blessedly anonymous amongst casseroles and crock pots.

That potato salad purchased my right to be standing here,

paper plate clutched to my chest.

Shuffling forward in line,

I notice everyone is ignoring my potato salad,

just as I plan to do.

That’s when I catch sight of the dessert table.

Enshrined like an offering on an altar,

listing slightly starboard in its towering magnificence,

six layers swathed in chocolate buttercream.

A cake.

Oh, glory, I whisper.

The man ahead of me cuts his eyes in my direction, edges forward,

putting some distance between himself and my holy expletives.

A gaggle of unsupervised children have also noticed the cake.

One of the wretches pokes a dirty finger into the frosting,

carrying the bounty to his mouth.

I see him pondering a second swipe,

so I step out of line into their midst,

driving them away.

Jesus said let the children come,

but he hadn’t been talking about this cake.

The lunch line has lurched forward without me.

I shrug, pick up a knife, and plunge it through those layers,

down into the heart of dark chocolate.

With a mighty, angling flop, I land a slice across my plate.

At first taste, I know resurrection,

pious Lenten fasting forgotten,

tearful Gethsemane salved.

In an obscure kitchen, a pair of unknown hands baked this cake

without any hope or thought of repayment.

They’d baked for the joy of it,

for the sheer foretaste of glory of it.

Now this scandalous indulgence sings out salvation like a gospel choir,

and I glance again at my potato salad,

feeling the sharp edge of embarrassed undeserving.

Then I take a second bite, and decide—

if the thief hanging next to Jesus didn’t question his luck—

neither will I.