Leading into today, the day that celebrates Jesus’ resurrection, I considered various ways to share the story with my children. The Passion of the Christ came to mind. It might be awfully difficult for children to watch, though I think few artistic forms paint a better picture of what happened. C.S. Lewis gave us a nice allegory of Jesus’ death and resurrection with the death of Aslan. I could read that chapter maybe. I could take them to a Sunday School class or leave it to one of their grandmothers to share the real meaning of Easter before or after the candy hunt. I could make them sit through an old You Tube version of Carman’s The Champion, which I gotta say is still pretty tempting. The options are just pretty much unlimited.
But in the end, I just read the story. I read it from John. I cried when He asked John to take care of His mother. I cried when He said it was finished. I cried when the disciples feared His body had been stolen and then He appeared to Mary in the garden. “Mary,” He said, “Who are you looking for?”
Our bedtime book these days is the Jesus Storybook Bible in which the retelling of Old Testament stories always illustrates how each story pointed to His coming, His sacrifice, and our redemption. So we were definitely ready for His coming, so to speak. And after two days of being with those we love most – on Michael’s side and mine – after tromping through yards and around gardens looking for eggs and cherishing decades of tradition – after showers and baths and tucking into bed so we could read the story, He definitely came. I feel it from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. Not the proof or the evidence, but the belief, the relief, and the happy, overwhelming feeling that it’s real.
I hope my children feel it too. And I hope you begin your week with at least a bit of that deep down wonderful feeling that comes from love, traditions, hard-won victories, and belief.