I had been looking forward to Easter Sunday for weeks. In the days leading up to it, I bought gifts for everyone's Easter baskets, picked out the kids' and my outfits, and dyed eggs with Evie. We had two parties to attend that day—Jeff's family's in the morning and mine in the evening. I looked forward to the mimosa (and adult conversation!) I'd have with brunch, and to watching my little cousins and daughter hunt for Easter eggs.
When Easter Sunday arrived, I was so caught up in our outfits and the Easter bunny and our hectic schedule (did I mention we went to two parties?) that I didn't even stop to acknowledge the true meaning of the day—what Easter is really about.
I grew up going to church every now and then, but by high school, sports and a packed social calendar took priority. I've always believed in a higher power, but I don't know him—or it—at all. I have no relationship with him (it? Her?). Because of that, I don't really know how to introduce my kids to religion. Eventually I'd like them to hear bible stories and attend church, but I want them to make their own decisions about what to believe and how to incorporate their learnings or beliefs into their everyday lives.
On Sunday, after the last eggs had been found, after I realized I hadn't reflected on the true meaning of Easter, I read this. (It's basically the Cliffs Notes version of the resurrection of Jesus Christ.) Maybe next I'll find some kids' books of bible stories for Evie and Maddox. Someday they'll need to know there's more to Easter and Christmas than candy and presents!