Calf brains scrambled with eggs were a traditional Easter morning meal at my grandparent’s house. I only ate it once, not knowing what I chewed and swallowed until the dishes were cleared away.
We spent many Easters with family, travelling up and down western Colorado’s U.S. Highway 50. My mother packed floral dresses for my sister and me, little-man shirts and stiff pants for my brother. The night would be spent fitfully, listening for the scritch-scratching of a large bunny. We’d wake to baskets lined with garish plastic grass. Loose jellybeans, Peeps chicks, and Russell Stover chocolate eggs with our names written in cursive on the sides filled the baskets. Hardboiled eggs, dyed in Paas and vinegar the night before, were hidden around the house when Easter fell on cold Sundays, outside when Easter’s sun and wind were warm.
The eggs would be found fairly and equitably—orders were given to the big kids to overlook the obvious so the little kids could have a chance. The eggs were counted and returned to the refrigerator if they were in good condition. Cracked eggs were peeled and rolled through salt and pepper sprinkled on a plate. I’d eat around the yellowgrey core, throwing the “best part” in the trash. Yolks taste viral and biological, although I didn’t have the language at the time to express my sour and powdered distaste.
Yolks were avoided more than black jellybeans, which were given away to a glad, laughing great-grandmother whose voice trembled when she prayed. She was the one who always prayed at family gatherings. Oh, Lord, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies… We’d eat breakfast together quickly because church would be crowded. It was always crowded on Easter Sundays. Let’s hurry and dress, everyone.
My Easter dresses always seemed to itch. Easter dresses are optimists—too many times the weather would still be hissing and spitting winter while our bodies were clothed in pink florals. It was the holiday of cold knees and arms. Stiff pictures would be snapped while we were still unwrinkled and free of chocolate smears.
Church brought a message of triumph over death, new life promised to those who believe, victory, vanquishment, Good News, it can be yours today! There were always baptisms, people clapping, hymns skyrocketed by over-practiced voices. I’d listen and doodle on the bulletins with the little pencils left in the pews. I knew the story of the three crosses on the hill. Two were thieves, one was Jesus. I knew about the open tomb, the empty tomb, the discarded burial clothes. Judas was the betrayer, Peter was the denier, doubting Thomas needed to feel and see. Mary and Mary made the discovery, John bragged about winning the footrace to the tomb. The road to Emmaus was long and frought with dangers. Travellers stuck together, strangers were invited to walk and talk. There were many witnesses. A veil was torn. The veil was torn. The sky grew black, Jesus asked His Father to forgive them—they know not what they do. His side was pierced.
Back at grandma’s, waiting for the children, were baskets of trinkets and candies brought by a bunny who went scritch-scratch in the night.
Back at grandma’s, waiting for the grownups, were ham dinners to make, table linens to unfurl, candles to light, fuss over a feast, and the opportunity to remove pantyhose, finally.
I’ve heard and read many Christians decrying the blurring between secular and sacred when it comes to Easter and Christmas. But isn’t that life? What is sacred about a birthday cake, or Mother’s Day? Why can’t I assign meaning into the deeply-held family traditions we hold dear? What is Biblical about a woman working herself into a tizzy over ham and green bean casserole and lily centerpieces and pressed dresses and hats?
The kids received a book called Easter Bunny, Are You For Real?. It’s written by the CEO of Christianity Today—Harold Myra. In the book, he explains how many Easter traditions came to be. For example, many people used to give up eggs for Lent (probably before cacao was introduced to sugar and milk). When Easter Day arrived, they were free to partake. The illustrations show a family watching the sunrise come up on Easter morning. It shows them going to church together, coloring eggs together, and hunting for eggs outside. In the end, it’s all about the resurrection of Jesus—a message that isn’t lost on a child because they have a bamboo basket with chocolate in hand.
I respect the right of other parents and families to approach Easter and all holidays how they chose. Only God knows the heart of each individual. As my great-grandmother literally shook with love for the Lord as she prayed over an Easter breakfast, replete with technicolor eggs, she taught me how family traditions and cultural traditions point to our Savior—He cannot be undermined by jellybeans.
Neither will I.
