Spring! I know it officially began on March 20, but let’s be realistic—as author Henry Van Dyke once pointed out, “The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another.” At least it is in Michigan, where a good month might separate the two events.
For me, celebrating Easter is the thing that tells me spring is here. The actual weather on that day doesn’t matter so much. Even when accompanied by that most unwelcome of guests—snow!—Easter still manages to speak to me of soft pastel colors and fresh green smells.
In my mind’s eye I always see it the way it looks in children's picture books—all painted eggs and downy chicks, crinkly cellophane and shiny foil, yellow forsythia branches and potted red tulips.
When I was little, my bothers and sisters and I would hunt for candy in our living room, then get dressed in our Easter finery for church. I don’t know how my parents did it—not just the corralling and scrubbing of five kids who had eaten chocolate bunnies for breakfast, but providing those spectacular, once-a-year outfits that were such a departure from our drab school uniforms and hand-me-down play clothes.
Here's a picture of us taken a few years before my youngest sister was born (that's me on the left). We girls always had ruffled, pastel-colored dresses, lacy ankle socks, shiny patent leather shoes, all topped off with flowered hats. And check out my sister's white gloves! Our brothers wore dress pants and jackets, white button-down shirts with ties, miniature lace-up dress shoes. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had starched handkerchiefs tucked into their pockets. Do kids dress like that anymore? Ever? Anyway, even though I was never a frilly, dressy-up kind of girl, I never minded making an exception for those lovely, floaty Easter outfits.
All grown up and blessed with three sons,
I could never duplicate the glory of my own childhood finery (sorry, Mom!), but I did my best to find suitable dress-up clothes they could wear to church. It was often quite a challenge, considering the day might bring sun, rain, snow, or possibly a combination of all three. Looking through our family pictures, you’d see each of these outfits exactly three times, as they passed down—barely used—from brother to brother.
But no matter how much time passes, my feelings about Easter don't change. There's still something about it that speaks to my soul—the return of light and warmth to my everyday world, the purple hyacinths and yellow daffodils poking up through the muddy patches, the colored eggs and baby lambs that make me think of birth and rebirth. There’s something about squishing into a pew next to all the other gussied-up people who woke up that morning in a world filled with hope and light, singing the glorious old hymns that celebrate “our triumphant holy day.”
A song my boys learned in grade school had these simple but profound lyrics: “In the spring, everything starts to sing!” You can be sure that “everything” includes me.
For me, celebrating Easter is the thing that tells me spring is here. The actual weather on that day doesn’t matter so much. Even when accompanied by that most unwelcome of guests—snow!—Easter still manages to speak to me of soft pastel colors and fresh green smells.
In my mind’s eye I always see it the way it looks in children's picture books—all painted eggs and downy chicks, crinkly cellophane and shiny foil, yellow forsythia branches and potted red tulips.When I was little, my bothers and sisters and I would hunt for candy in our living room, then get dressed in our Easter finery for church. I don’t know how my parents did it—not just the corralling and scrubbing of five kids who had eaten chocolate bunnies for breakfast, but providing those spectacular, once-a-year outfits that were such a departure from our drab school uniforms and hand-me-down play clothes.
Here's a picture of us taken a few years before my youngest sister was born (that's me on the left). We girls always had ruffled, pastel-colored dresses, lacy ankle socks, shiny patent leather shoes, all topped off with flowered hats. And check out my sister's white gloves! Our brothers wore dress pants and jackets, white button-down shirts with ties, miniature lace-up dress shoes. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had starched handkerchiefs tucked into their pockets. Do kids dress like that anymore? Ever? Anyway, even though I was never a frilly, dressy-up kind of girl, I never minded making an exception for those lovely, floaty Easter outfits.All grown up and blessed with three sons,
I could never duplicate the glory of my own childhood finery (sorry, Mom!), but I did my best to find suitable dress-up clothes they could wear to church. It was often quite a challenge, considering the day might bring sun, rain, snow, or possibly a combination of all three. Looking through our family pictures, you’d see each of these outfits exactly three times, as they passed down—barely used—from brother to brother.
But no matter how much time passes, my feelings about Easter don't change. There's still something about it that speaks to my soul—the return of light and warmth to my everyday world, the purple hyacinths and yellow daffodils poking up through the muddy patches, the colored eggs and baby lambs that make me think of birth and rebirth. There’s something about squishing into a pew next to all the other gussied-up people who woke up that morning in a world filled with hope and light, singing the glorious old hymns that celebrate “our triumphant holy day.”
A song my boys learned in grade school had these simple but profound lyrics: “In the spring, everything starts to sing!” You can be sure that “everything” includes me.
