Easters of Yesteryear

Daughter's first Easter was a happy time...

Okay, Easter # 2 was better. She was almost two and really liked her Easter "basket"

At almost age three, she became engrossed in the chemistry experiment called egg dying...

 But we cleaned up pretty good the next morning for church!

At age almost four she was more relaxed in chemistry.

 And look what a beauty she was coming down to see what the Easter bunny left.

 At almost five, she got a big surprise! (and notice how the  newel post has "shrunk" from last year)

Who could resist these Easter cuties? Daughter and first cousin.

Almost seven: She loved this doll!

 And we skip a year to almost nine: Cheesy smile and all. When I said, "Smile!" the dog did too. But she sure didn't like being the Easter Mastiff.

 And just for giggles, this is me, age six. Ain't I purdy?

 And  my Daddy, around five or six., 1934 or 1935.

HAPPY EASTER!

Before They Knew Sunday was Coming

 Easter is coming up Sunday.

I always think about the Friday before, and what a horrible day it was.

Jesus, The Christ, had suffered physically more than most of us will ever know. He suffered spiritually more than any of us will ever know.

The people who loved Him suffered too. His mother, watching the agony He went through. His disciples, afraid, ashamed, confused, they too in agony over this horrific scene.

How could this have happened? Didn't He say He was The Christ? Didn't He say, "If you have seen Me, you have seen the Father?"

If that was true, how could this have happened? How could He have allowed Himself to be captured and tortured and slain?

Had they all been wrong about Him after all?

True, He had said as much. He said He must suffer and die. But they hadn't really wanted to hear that, you know? They focused more on what He did - all those miracles - and the kingdom He talked about.

They wanted to hear the good stuff. Forget the hard stuff. After all, God is love, right? And Jesus did all sorts of stuff that no one else could do...and wasn't that enough?

But now....they were hidden upstairs in a locked room, fearful for their lives. Every noise was imagined Roman soldiers coming for them.

They grieved, and grieved deeply. But they were also ticked off. How could He do this to them? How could He have left them...alone and with no hope?

Where was He?

The women in Jesus' life apparently feared less, or had less to fear...for they went to the tomb to better prepare His body.

And to their utter dismay, the body was gone. The stone rolled back, discarded. The burial clothes were rumpled, the face cloth neatly folded, and laid aside.

Someone had stolen His body! Where were the Roman guards who were to prevent this?

Where could He be?

And then one of those miracles happened...young men, dressed in white, encased in bright light told them not to be alarmed. "You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth. He is not here. He is risen!"

And then the world was changed forever.

He is risen! He is risen, indeed!

Here Comes Peter Cottontail.....

As a child, I received many live gifts for Easter.

No matter how much my mother pleaded, pouted, demanded, etc., her father got me live animals.

Always there were the colored chicks. Cute!

When I was three, my mother relates she was in the kitchen and I got "too quiet". All mothers know exactly what this means.

She found me sitting on the couch with a baby chick in my fist, it's head to the side, neck broken. She said that before she thought, she cried out: "Oh, you killed it!"

I looked up tearfully and said, "I was just loving on it."

Anyway, the chicks that survived turned into bad-ugly adolescents whose feathers gradually turned white with color just on the tips, like an old lady who needs to go to the hair dresser, posthaste.

At that point they would mysteriously disappear.

Then there was the year that with along with the chicks I got a baby duck. My mother named it "Waddles". Apparently I was too little to do the name thing yet. But I do remember the duck. And it grew quickly from a fuzzy yellow ball into a giant white quacking/squirting poop machine.

At that point, he mysteriously disappeared.

I fondly remember the year that, along with all the colored chicks, I got a baby rabbit. My mother named it "Troubles". (Can you see it coming?)

Wasn't long before this "I chew everything in my path to smithereens" became a bigger "I chew everything in my path to smithereens."

At this point -  you guessed it - he mysteriously disappeared.

Good thing I didn't get our cat, Blackie, for Easter. He wouldn't have stuck around for long!

I asked my mother, years later, where did all those animals go? After she blew off steam about my granddaddy not listening to her and giving me living things every year, she said they went to my great-uncle Sam's farm.

Sounds reasonable.

To give my mother credit, she has never given any of her grandchildren live animals, for any reason.

But she has spoiled them and done what she pleased about how to treat them, give gifts to them, and what to let them get away with. As in just about everything.

It's sort of a grandparent clause that says you don't have to be a responsible adult anymore.

It's got me to thinking.

Someday, I hope I'll be a grandparent (but not too soon!). Because I am already plotting on how to be an irresponsible, smug, behind-the-parent's-back kind of person.

I can't wait!

Happy Easter!