Such a Good Friday.

It is so glorious outside right now that I have to contain myself from singing, as if I'm one of the Van Trapp Family singers, or perhaps Neil Patrick Harris.

This is the first Easter since I've moved to Maryland that I've been able to feel warmth on my arms, and it is a resurrection of sorts. A return to warmth, a return to boundless energy and mud pies in the backyard. New life! The grass is risen! It is risen indeed!

I don't care that for the third day in a row, I am posting a picture of my children playing in the sun. If that isn't a holy thing to show during this Holy Week, I don't know what is:

I am going to finish writing this, and then I am going to make the glaze for my Easter Ham, using a can of Dr. Pepper and some brown sugar. I'm pretty sure that Giada or The Barefoot Contessa would not approve. Paula Deen surely would, so I am comfortable with this decision.

My glaze will cool in the pan and my husband will be home from a meeting in DC. I cannot yet share what the meeting is about, but I know that the results were good, and Paul is happy.

I will be glad to see him, and I'm especially happy that I will see him smiling, his shoulders no longer stiff with tension. I don't give him enough credit for all he carries to keep our family aloft. We float effortlessly on his iron wings.

When the boys wake up, we will walk to The Bay, and I will soak up the remaining sun. I will look to the heavens, and on this Good Friday, I will mean it all the more: "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."