Easter. Memory.


Now they are grown. All three of my children. Matthew. Drew. Katie. All in their thirties. But on Easter morning I think back to the days when they were small. How much fun it was to prepare their Easter baskets. Cadbury Eggs. Peanut Butter Cup Eggs. (Still the best.) Solid milk chocolate bunnies. Yellow and pink Peeps. Jelly-beans.

The boys would wear their khaki pants and blue blazers. Katie a new dress. And off to church we would go. I was busy, of course, on Easter morning, but it meant something to me that they were in church. We didn’t shove religion down their throats. It’s who we were. Church was important. It was the spiritual oxygen of our lives. My job? Yes, it was my job, but it was more than a job.

After church we would come home and enjoy a nice brunch. Honeybaked ham. Marti made the same brunch every year. Quiche. Sausage and cheese. Bacon and asparagus. Angel biscuits. Fruit. Mimosas. (For dad. Not the kids.) On Easter we basked in the glow of church music and brass and lilies adorning the chancel. It was a day of joy.

I sometimes wonder how they remember it all. I wonder if they think back to Easter mornings. If they cherish those days or if in fact it was all a big chore to them. I don’t know and I’m a little afraid to ask. I just know that it meant something then, and now that they are grown, I hope it still means something to them. I marvel at what they are doing and who they are and how they are moving forward with their lives. But I still think of Easter dresses for a little girl. Blazers for a couple of boys. And church. And brunch after church. The goodness of the day.

You think it lasts forever. It doesn’t. But I read a quote this week by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who just passed away, and he said: “No one can take away the dances you have enjoyed.” I think that is true. And Take a Breath . . . I think that is the truth of Easter morning.




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