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When we think of Easter, images of bunnies and eggs and family dinners come to mind. There's a nostalgia to the Easter celebration. Reliving our own childhood fun in the eyes of our own children.
We used to go to my grandparents house in Kingman, KS every holiday. And every easter eggs and candy would be hidden in the yard or around the house and the seven of us grandkids would gleefully hunt down the sweet prizes that were the celebration of Easter. I remember finding and re-hiding and finding again over and over. I remember the smell of the cedars in their back yard. I remember the warmth of the sun and the fun of running outside.
Our parents would all sit inside talking/cooking/sleeping - coming out to check on us every so often. I remember the tables all pushed together for lunch and the leftovers for dinner. And when we were quite young, my cousin Kevin and I would petition the powers-that-be to stay the night at grandma and grandpa's.
Those memories are joyful. Full of warmth and love.
What I don't remember is talk of the resurrection. Oh, we went to church. Either our own or my grandparents church. And we would sing and pray and listen to the preacher. But I don't remember our family talking about Christ's sacrifice.
And that's something I want her to remember.
