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Easter morning started out perfectly.

I opened my sliding patio door as the first rays of sun were
coming up and took a deep breath of spring air. Six weeks ago I had looked out
the same door to see two feet of snow swirling through the tall trees.

But now, my daffodils had burst into little fanfares while
the first birds of dawn sounded like flutes echoing through the treetops.

I walked over to my computer and opened up an email from a
childhood friend now in Missouri. It was a Jacquie Lawson electronic greeting
card. I clicked on it.

A rich pealing of church bells emanated from my computer
blending with the sweet strains of Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.” The scene
enlarged to include the obligatory sheep, an orchard thick with apple blossoms,
birds and butterflies. Soon a rustic English farm came into view while a group
of ducks floated peacefully along a marsh-lined creek.

I got dressed, drove a few miles and pulled into a familiar
parking lot.

The dozen or so cherry trees planted in freshly mulched
islands had burst into full bloom, while a church bell beckoned early morning
worshippers.

But then, at precisely 7:55 a.m., the Pascal perfection of
the morning ended…I was at work.

I work for a company that owns several hotels and fine
dining restaurants in the Brandywine Valley as the executive assistant to a man
who is not only a partner in the controlling company but owner of one of the
properties.

And no matter what your job description, you work Easter.

By 8:05 a.m., the phones had begun to ring off the hook as I
started fielding two to three calls per minute—not one of my strong points.

“…Hello, are you doing anything special today?” came the
voice.

 “Dear one,” I
wanted to ask, “When did you first realize it was Easter?”

But I looked at the little picture of Jesus I keep taped to
my computer screen, took a deep breath, smiled and told her we were sold out
through 3:30 p.m. and thanked her so much for thinking of us.

“…Hello, we have reservations for eight people at the brunch
buffet and have to cancel as we all came down with the flu this morning,” came
the next call.

I wanted to tell them the dog ate my homework, but looked at
my little picture again, took a deep breath, smiled and said how sorry I was
and that we would surely miss them.

Three hours into the brunch buffet, one of our long-time
cooks who could open her own catering company, walked by my office.

 “Make it stop,”
she cried in mock desperation.

At some point during the middle of the afternoon, I walked
down to the quasi-Roman food orgy in the ballroom and observed our executive
chef at a buffet station, carving our signature slow-roasted prime rib of beef.
A large, robust man, he was still smiling and looked like a Santa Claus in a
chef’s jacket. What had he put in his cappuccino that morning, and could I have
some too?

By 5 p.m., after 9 hours of taking calls, I felt like I had
been through the wringer. There were still two more hours of reservations, but
the phones had mercifully stopped. Easter was over for another year and
Mother’s Day was only five weeks away.