I wrote this post last night, and I meant to put it up then.
But life happens, and I’m just now getting around to it. So please, pretend it
Good Friday.
Sunday is Easter. My Facebook feed has been full of posts
about Jesus being risen. About how He is the reason behind this holiday. That
we need to remember that it’s all about him.
That Easter isn’t about the egg dye, egg hunts, or Easter dress.
It’s a little bit about the egg dye.
Last year, a few of my friends from freshman year of
university started doing weekly dinners to keep in touch. Since then, these
encounters have evolved from casually reminiscing about past times to us making
newer, more ridiculous memories. The memories usually involve us doing
something that we had talked about for years finally coming to fruition. One
thing that we talked about every year was dyeing Easter eggs. But it always got
away from us. We forgot. Made other plans. Tomorrow morning, that’s all going
to change. Four 20-somethings are going to dye eggs, two of us for the first
time. Tomorrow morning will just be another memory this reunified group of
idiots makes and never forgets. Long after the eggs are eaten and the shells
composted, I will think back to what will surely be a fiasco and smile. Because
egg dye matters a little bit.
What’s Easter without an egg hunt? Easter, all the same,
sans that thrill of finding candy and coins nestled in brightly colored plastic.
Parents and grandparents have had hunts for me, siblings, cousins for as long
as I can remember. When I was five, Papa whispered the location of the
five-dollar bill into my ear. I had no real concept of money. But he was
whispering, whispering always led to something cool.
As I grew up, my family moved a state away. Easter became
this fleeting affair spent with nuclear family. Times were tough for us for a
while. There’s one Easter in particular that stands out in my mind as one of
those recollections that never leaves. I was fifteen. We lived in a tiny grey
house with no central heating or air or countertop space in the kitchen. For
whatever reason, this Easter in particular saw high tensions. The holiday had
snuck up on us, and we were woefully underprepared for any of the typical
Easter things. We didn’t have much candy. No egg dye. I don’t even think we had
very many eggs. My siblings and I had resigned ourselves to an Easter without.
We still had plenty to be thankful for. Easter was about Jesus, and in my
fifteen year old mind, this was an opportunity to refocus on the resurrection.
But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell here. My parents
were determined we have an Easter egg hunt. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t much.
Nothing was at that time in our lives. There was some candy. Coins. Little
knick-knacks that I’ve lost track of. And one big lesson. My parents truly are
a gift from God.
Egg hunts and egg dyeing are frivolous. But it’s in that
frivolity that I have learned something so valuable. Without the Resurrection
of Christ, these memories have no meaning or root. His sacrifice is the reason
I have these friends. The reason my parents can put God first, love each other
and take care of their children the way they do. Because without Christ, my
parents never would have raised me a Christian. I never would have gone to Bob
Jones. Without Christ, this frivolity never would have had any meaning.
So this Sunday, when you are in your Easter dress praising
the Risen Savior, remember: it’s a little bit about the eggs.
