Over the last ten years since entering the Catholic Church, my little family has grown towards living our faith, adding traditions as we practically stumble across them. Lent is a tradition “full” time. My children know they will be pulled out of school to attend Ash Wednesday and Holy Week services. They know Friday baseball and soccer practices will cease for Stations of the Cross. They can count on not attending birthday parties during the Triduum. As a family, we enjoy watching movies so it’s really no stretch that we made it a tradition to watch The Passion of the Christ on Holy Thursday and The Ten Commandments on Holy Saturday. Last year, my husband added a new tradition to our Holy Thursday – Hot Cross Buns. Jose used a simple recipe from the Pioneer Woman. He lovingly made the dough, let the rolls rise while we were at church, and baked them when we came home. The boys iced them; and since he made more than we needed, we sent the boys out to deliver some to our neighbors, which they were very happy to receive as it reminded them of their childhoods. The buns were hot, slightly sweet and filled with raisins. Our evening then turned very somber as we watched the Passion of the Christ, and we went to bed in a sad silence.
What I didn’t expect was what happened the next morning. Good Friday began with a shuffle to the kitchen to make a cup of hot water (when I really want a cup of coffee with half and half in it) and I noticed the leftover and very cold cross buns. They no longer looked fresh and enticing. The icing had hardened over; they felt heavier somehow and they were cold! I had almost forgotten about them, but they looked so pitiful and unappetizing I was resolved that this would be my breakfast. I sat down with my hot water and bun. The grey of the morning, the chill in the house, and I was the only one up and therefore alone and in silence. I thought I should read my Bible and make good use of the quiet, but instead the tears slipped down and I was crying looking at my cold cross bun and how I wasn’t not worthy of any of it – least of all our Lord’s passion and death on the cross.
Looking at my bun, my mind drifted. I could see His body being handed to His mother and I could feel her sorrowful heart breaking, but relieved to know His suffering had come to an end; His death giving life to the world, as she knew it had to be. I was then back in my dining room, still grey looking and chilly, but now I heard arguing upstairs between my sons. I wiped my tears and said a prayer of thanksgiving for this early morning gift, and I had to wonder if I would’ve seen it without the catalyst of the Cold Cross Bun before I headed back upstairs to begin the day. I do know that Hot and Cold Cross Buns were cemented at that moment as the newest Lemus Lenten tradition.
“Hot – and Cold – Cross Buns” contributed by Dollia Lemus.