When I was growing up, my family
never had Easter egg hunts out in the back yard. I imagine that had something
to do with living in Minnesota, where back yards were still being used as
skating rinks come Easter time.
Instead, on Easter morning my
mom, clever lady that she was, conducted a jelly bean hunt in the living room. My
brother and I would race around gleefully, filling little baskets with as many
beans as we could find.
Over the years, as we grew older
and wiser, my parents got pretty good at hiding the jelly beans in sneaky
places. We might find them balanced on a lamp finial, up high on top of a
picture frame, or in the crevices of a decorative pine cone. Green ones could
be tucked craftily into the leaves of plants. One year we found a black jelly
bean, slightly worse for the wear, hidden between the black keys of the piano
months after Easter had come and gone.
It was a parental joy to be able
to introduce my own children to my favorite Easter tradition. I have fond
memories of many Easter eves, preparing the moment of joy for my little ones. When
all was set to rights and the house was dark and quiet, I would steal about the
living room, tucking little bits of color here and there and everywhere, some
high, some low, some easy to find and some impossible, sampling my wares as I
went.
Easter morning the kids weren’t
allowed in the living room. They bounced with excitement knowing what was just
on the other side of the door but weren’t allowed to peek, not until we had
gone to the early service, eaten egg casserole in the fellowship hall, gone
back in for the late service, taken our traditional Easter pictures, and waited
impatiently for Dad to get home. At long last they gripped their baskets, threw
a grin over their shoulders and were off, flashing about the living room in
pink dress and small blue shirt and tie, scooping up jelly beans with squeals
of delight.
Eventually the hunt was over. The
kids plopped onto the couch with their baskets, popping red and yellow and
green berries into their mouths, eyes scanning the room for one last find. By
that point I usually needed to get up and tend to something in the kitchen, but
I would sit there as long as I could, soaking in the joy of the moment as my
kids radiated contentment.
Those were good Easters. I felt
like I did those days right.
Last year things changed. For
the first time we didn’t do a jelly bean hunt. My logical brain took over and
told me the kids were too old for it. And, too, I couldn’t help thinking that there
was something silly about hunting and pecking for candy when I could just as
easily hand them the unopened bags and a pair of scissors. We still ate our
jelly beans, out of bags and not baskets. Somehow, though, they didn’t taste as
good.
I’ve been getting a little down
about this Easter this year. I know it’s a special day. And holidays are
supposed to be good days, different from regular days. They’re supposed to be
something to look forward to.
But I don’t know how to make it good
for my family. I don’t know what to do to set the day apart. We don’t have
family nearby, and I’m not much of a cook… I’m worried that the day on which
I’m supposed to be helping my family celebrate the Most Important Event in the
History of the World is going to be just another day. Easter is not going to be
special, and it will be my fault.
My mind wafts back to those grinning
children flitting about the living room, hunting and gathering, wholly engaged
in just being happy.
That’s the Easter joy I want. I
want the kind of happiness on which children sometimes seem to have cornered
the market. Delight in the moment, without analysis. I know that my Redeemer
lives…and I want to spend a day just being happy about it.
The day gets in the way of
itself sometimes. Expectations and preparations turn into weights that hang off
the shoulders and drag joy to a standstill. A day on which merriment is the
goal leaves so much opportunity for failure for the ones expected to provide
it.
No. You know what? I’m not doing
that. Not this year. This year I’m putting Jesus in charge of the joy.
What am I thinking, fretting and
stressing about this of all days? I mean, good gravy, Jesus DIED to make it
happen. He clobbered Satan, fought off death, and returned to an incredulous
world, nail-punctured hands open in loving acceptance. And I think that I can
add something to the occasion by making a green bean casserole?? That’s just
crazy talk.
No, I’m not doing that. I’m not
claiming the ability to be the joy creator. God’s got that covered. This year
I’m going to sit back and enjoy it.
We’re having a jelly bean hunt. Yep,
they’re silly. But you know what? They’re fun, and that matters. And we’re
going to enjoy our ham and laugh at the cat and wash the dishes and maybe get a
little grumpy and probably take naps. And it will probably be just another day.
But that’s okay. Because every
day is a day with Jesus. Every day is a day on which we are loved.
It’s worth celebrating.
First published in The Alpena News on March 31, 2018
