Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," proud to be providing meaningful content to downsized deities everywhere! When someone asks me, "What god do you worship?" I answer, "Whoever needs it most at the moment!"
Here's an Easter story straight from my navel, so toddle off if you came looking for issue-oriented reporting.
About two weeks ago, my daughter The Heir came home from school all excited. "Hey, Mom, guess what?" she said.
I expected she might have gotten an "A" on a paper or a raise at work.
She blurted: "I'm gonna be the Easter Bunny!"
Apparently the local Rotarians recruit members of Snobville High's National Honor Society to work as the Easter Bunny at the annual Snobville egg hunt. The Heir got to dress up in an Easter Bunny costume, ride the fire truck, and hug scads of sweet tots. The Rotarians were very pleased with her performance, rewarding her with one of those really, really humongous chocolate bunnies that you see in the store but never buy because they're too expensive. It's like the Oscar of chocolate bunnies, so of course it's on display on our mantelpiece.
Anyway, as The Heir hugged toddlers and posed for photos, it occurred to me that my former Christian church always has an Easter egg hunt on the Saturday before Easter. It's held in the backyard of my friend Celeste, the only church lady who has remained buddies with me since I strayed the fold.
The Rotarians were only too glad to allow The Heir to have the bunny suit for a few more hours. So I phoned Celeste and said we'd be over to greet the sweet little Methodist kids. And off we went.
I formally severed ties with the Snobville United Methodist Church three years ago after undergoing a period of intense enlightenment. So when I arrived at the Methodist Easter egg hunt in escort of The Heir (in her costume), I saw some people who I hadn't seen in three years. To say their reception was frosty is putting it mildly. Not even a "thank you" for bringing The Heir in her fluffy suit, even though this event had never had an Easter Bunny before!
Of course Celeste was her usual sweet self. And another gal who has every reason to blacken my eye for not helping with some DAR stuff was clearly glad to see me. Otherwise, although I greeted everyone warmly and asked how they and their children were doing, the warmth only flowed one way. No one even asked why I was there.
This behavior has very little to do with my choice to leave the church. (I never really made my reasons public.) What it actually is, is normal for that group of people. Except for Celeste and the DAR chick, the Snobville Methodists are just plainly a bunch of cold fish. No wonder it was so easy for the bored gods to gain my ears! I was surrounded by Ice Mommies. God can have them.
Nobody even inquired after my daughters, The Heir and The Spare. Don't tell me it's because no one remembered their names. Who can forget names like Heir and Spare?
The Heir did her bunny gig for the Methodist kids (who were nearly as cold as their folks), and we hoofed it out of there, both eager for a cold can of TaB Cola. Which we had at home, and it tasted awful as always but soothed every frayed nerve.
On this Easter Sunday, self, Heir and Spare climbed into the car, quit Snobville via the Walt Whitman Bridge, and drove to our Druid Grove gathering of Alban Eiler. I've never quite gotten out of Church Lady mode, so we had dyed three dozen eggs for our event. The Heir hid the eggs in a field, but then she had to go retrieve a dozen for the ritual!
We had a lovely bonfire in a park-sanctioned pit, and enjoyable, spiritually-rewarding ritual, a fun time spreading blessings and hunting eggs, and then we repaired to a nearby Irish pub for some extra warmth.
I think I'm doing better now. I wish The Heir could have kept the bunny suit through Sunday, because now I hang with a group of people who know how to treat Easter Bunnies and other human beings.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS