Rising
How we're resurrecting hope
When looking back on traditions from my childhood I feel nostalgic, for the most part, all warm and fuzzy. When nostalgia washes over me, sometimes it makes me laugh and sometimes it makes me cry. What’s always the same is that I feel better for having remembered. I feel even better looking back at such moments than maybe I did when they originally occurred. Inexplicably, that ‘better’ feeling also makes me hopeful - for today and tomorrow and the next day. These happy memories resurrect a feeling of overall contentment hidden within the reminder of how lovely life was, how lovely life is and could be. I don’t believe I’m yearning for the past so much as acknowledging that the me who had that moment was perfect for it and the me who enjoys my current life is perfect for it too.
When I asked Jenn to collaborate with me on a hopeful post about our Easter traditions, she dove in with gusto. The cover art, which she created, is such a perfect snapshot of what my childhood Easter Sunday’s were. And, I expect that our words, unseen until we’re finished, will be perfect for one another in this shared moment. It’s worked out that way with every collaboration I’ve done up to this point. Every one.
Jenn and I wish you peace and abundant blessings from your own spring spiritual devotions.
In a generational family household of sometimes 11 people, it was quite a scramble getting everyone out the door in their Sunday best for Easter church. We have so many family photographs of especially my sisters and I in tiny dresses with frilly socks, patent leather buckle shoes, and of course hats. Sometimes we also held tiny little handbags.
Back in my day (God, that sounds old. Is almost 61 old now?), Easter culminated in church, but the preparations were amazing too. We colored eggs (later pickled with red beets yum), had egg hunts, ate Gardner’s Easter candy made in a local factory near us and sold as PTA fundraisers in the run up to Easter, and at one point in time had the 1960/1970 fad of the moment - baby chicks dyed beautiful pastel shades. As a child that was magical. They showed up at the door of my Aunt’s house in a cardboard box out of which they poured like warm fuzzy Kool Aid when she opened that box. Of course now we know that was horrible for us and the chicks.
From top left to right Mom, sisters Nina and Beth, then me, Beth, Nina, then Beth, Nina, cousin Mickie, sister Sally, and me. Bottom row is dyed chicks (no idea they still did this in 2016), then Beth, cousin Tonya, Grandmother Ethel, cousin Luanna, cousin Matthew, sister Jennifer.
No matter that he was disinterested at best and maybe even an atheist, my dad kept us near a (generally Methodist) church no matter where we lived. For much of my childhood, even after my mother died when I was 9, he had us kids attend church on Sundays. As a parent, I’m sure he was hoping some good, kind things rubbed off on us to offset the sometimes cruel realities of life. Although a Christian myself, I failed to follow in his footsteps with my own children. I attended church hit or miss at best. My sons joined me for a hot moment in their junior/senior high years before we fell out of the habit again. However, those Easter traditions continued in other ways. We visited family back home in PA when we could. We colored eggs together for years (no dyed chicks) and filled baskets with goodies, sometimes even Gardner’s candy from PA. Another huge hit for me was my early delight in black licorice flavored jelly beans. Yes, as a matter of fact, I have always been a bit weird that way.
With my own children, I have one distinct memory of my oldest son near Easter time when he was 2 years old. We were living in a truly densely populated suburb of Columbus, Ohio and the neighborhood was hosting an egg hunt. We thought that sounded amazing so we got him a little plastic basket and a bunch of plastic eggs which we hid around the house a few times a week for fun. Sometimes crowds of kids were intimidating to toddlers, so we thought this would help reduce the potential overwhelm from the mystique of this new experience. Well, maybe not. LOL. The morning of the egg hunt was beautiful weather and for some reason we had trouble holding him back until they blew the whistle. Then he took off on his sturdy little legs finding ALL the eggs, like a Round-1 NFL draft pick in their first big game. He was elbowing the other tots out of his way in his rush to get to all the eggs. After about the 5th ‘jostle’ we had to scoop him up and leave, to his hysterical dismay. We made him his own egg course that morning at home. Note to self - no need to ‘train’ for a toddler egg hunt. LOL.
Back to my childhood. Easter dinner was always ham. In my family, that meant cloves pressed into the ham’s surface surrounded with pineapple rings (good ole Dole), maraschino cherries, and then packed tightly with brown sugar. There were mashed potatoes and those pickled eggs and possibly creamed corn and stewed tomatoes and always homemade bread and cream pies - chocolate and butterscotch made by my grandmother’s hands. I don’t recall what the rest of the sides were, but maybe my sisters will speak up in the comments to remind me. If our uncles were visiting, there was a pickup football game in which someone was generally, slightly injured. There was certainly beer, Genessee to be precise. Side bar - the Genessee brewery has operated in Rochester, NY since it’s founding in 1878 and is one of the oldest, continually operating breweries in the United States. It’s a legend, at least in its own mind.
It was the big family gatherings that I remember the most fondly, along with the dressed-to-the-nines photo ops. Now that I can look back at those, I don’t so much wish to go back there as I feel hopeful about the new traditions we’ve become part of since moving back home, like Easter dinner with my niece Lacey; and for the future traditions our children and their children will hold dear. There is nothing better to pass down to them than hope for their own futures.
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I’m so grateful to Cori for inviting me to share some art and a bit about our Easter celebrations. We don’t have a lot of traditions in my family, but there is one that I’m always sure to include: the coloring of Easter eggs.
Eggs are an important part of our Easter tradition. I was taught as a child that an egg can be used to illustrate the Trinity. An egg has three parts: the shell, the white, and the yolk, but they are all one egg. So it is with God. Also, an empty eggshell represents the empty tomb of the risen Christ. And, my aforementioned favorite: the dyeing of Easter eggs. This tradition symbolizes the hope of life’s renewal through the transformation of stark white into vibrant color.
Because I am the head chef and the head painter-of-things at my house, I am in charge of the entire egg coloring operation. The kids and I gather a hodgepodge of bowls and glasses, vinegar, and dye tablets. We cover the table with a drop cloth and don old clothes. The kids pick which vessel gets which color and we slosh in the vinegar and eagerly and impatiently stir up the magic. Each kid gets four eggs. Sometimes they’ll let me have one to dye, but mostly I help keep track of whose eggs are in which bowls and aid with egg transfers when needed. Watching the metamorphosis of the eggs and the delight on my kid’s faces never gets old.
One year, I impulsively began dyeing strips of scrap paper after the kids had their fill of egg dyeing. I felt so awful about discarding the beautiful colors after they’d brought such pleasure and excitement. I stuck one end of a paper scrap into each bowl, and the color started to slowly rise up the paper. Watching the colorful dye supersede the whiteness of the paper seemed akin to life superseding death.
In that tomb on that first Easter morning, I wonder if life to returned to Christ in the same way. A slow spreading of blooming color, imbuing life into the lifeless, bit by bit, until both body and tomb and the very air became saturated with His radiance and essence. The tomb, bursting with life and hope, could no longer contain His glory, and was soon as empty as an eggshell on so many Easter mornings to come.
This year, like last year, my kids will probably mix up all the dye colors into a sludgy brown. It brings them such joy to combine the colors and watch them transform as they merge together. I still have a few of those colorfully dyed paper scraps from years before. Some have even found their way into my art, ever reminding me of our Easter tradition and all the meaning it holds for me. Maybe I’ll have to dye a few paper strips brown this year. After all, it may turn out to be a rich color rather than a sludgy one; carrying with it all the hope and promise of fresh earth in early spring, eager to burst forth in vibrant, colorful life.
Our Easter dying operation. All the colors of joy.
My favorite egg from last Easter, miraculous against this starburst plate.
Jenn’s work is wonderful, both written and visual. The most amazing thing about artists is that through their creative life’s work, they wear their hearts on the outside unconcerned with possible breakage. It’s inspiring. Please check out her site, like and subscribe.
Someone you know needs to hear about hope today. Pass it on.
It’s not a family holiday without spirited debate around both the adult’s and kids’ tables. Tell us how you really feel, we don’t bite.
A guest post by
Making art, raising kids.
Who can forget solid chocolate bunnies. Yeah, we had the egg hunts on Easter Sunday morning. Then to Mass, if I wasn’t serving (alter boy). When I got a little older, like high school, I usually did the Easter Vigil Mass the night before.
Then later at dinner on Easter Sunday, at my aunt & uncle’s house, there was another hunt. There were hollow plastic eggs filled with jelly beans and/or coins. Dinner would follow and after dessert, there was usually a card game for the adults.
Thanks ladies for bringing back a fond memory.
Black licorice jelly beans are a line of demarcation. These are where the pros are separated from the rank amateurs. The pastels are reserved for those with a less discerning palate. Just like Miracle Whip.