Easter

 

I awoke early, well before the alarm.  Darkness lay quietly in the room, and the only sound was the subtle rise and fall of my husband’s breath.  Nearby, in their own sweet rooms, my children slept peacefully. 

It was time.

I rose softly, donning an old familiar sweater and worn sneakers.  My hair was a riot of curls, and I could only hope the neighbors wouldn’t see me.  I gathered up my secret carton and crept into the lovely dawn of Easter morning.

It had been cold the last few days, but today was warmer.  And birds chirped unexpectedly as the sky began to lighten.  There was something so magical about dropping bright, candy-colored eggs onto green grass.  My spirit soared, and my task was completed much too quickly.

For a long moment, I stood there in the dewy grass and absorbed the first rays of sunrise.  My thoughts turned to resurrection, to sacrifice and to rebirth.  I thought not of my own family—Easter baskets already filled on the kitchen table, a busy schedule of gatherings for the day—but of a long-ago man near my own age.  It was thanks to Him that I was able to perform this bit of magic on this beautiful day, and wordless prayers filtered through my mind.

It was Easter.  It was a new day.  It was a perfect and surreal moment.

After a quick glance at the scattered eggs in my backyard and a brief smile for the happy birds, I turned to go inside.

 

“He Is Risen.”