Easter morning

I am sitting in my in-laws' kitchen, looking out onto their pond and gardens, the woods surrounding the property just beginning to have hints of green underbrush and buds. The sun streams brightly into the house and it's a welcome reprieve from yesterday's cold rain. It's morning and my in-laws are at church and Matt and my brother and sister-in-laws are still asleep. It's just Penny and me, and a chorus singing from the CD player as I type (the type of beautiful music that makes everything more profound). Penny is watching the birds outside and I'm just here, enjoying a banana muffin with my musical and canine companionship.

It's moments like this when my disease seems insignificant. Yesterday I enjoyed good food and loving company, and my pain was minimal. I am in a bit of discomfort now, but something about the surroundings makes it nothing more than a slight inconvenience. (On the flip side, when I have days like this, I also reconsider surgery - sometimes the intense pain is just the push I need.)

Still, this is no way to enjoy life - it's the perfect morning for a brisk walk with Penny on the adjoining gravel roads (and I can tell she's thinking the same thing), but I think my abdomen would cry out in pain just as I got to the end of my in-laws' long and winding driveway.

So I'm sitting and enjoying what good I have now - which is a lot. I have very little to complain about outside of my Crohn's, and it's these peaceful moments that just seem to say: "You'll be fine."