Come to think of it, from a childhood perspective, Easter was the one holiday untouched by sad memories. It felt like the only time I could fully enjoy the experience without it being interrupted by an “episode.”
From the start, Easter was consistent, dependable, and free. Lord, have mercy.
I’ve pondered why that is. I think it’s the effervescence in the air—what I’ve come to recognize as the Holy Spirit—that seems to override any family dysfunction. Is it truly that magical? Yes, I believe it is.
And why do I feel the Holy Spirit in the air on this day more than any other? Group Consciousness. Throngs of people, all over the world, setting aside their everyday angst and choosing to celebrate the divine.
I’ll give an honorable mention to the Wiccans. We weren’t raised to acknowledge such things, but it’s impossible to ignore the lime-green tree buds, the lingering warmth of the spring equinox sun, the annual thaw from a long Western New York winter, and that pervasive sense of everlasting hope.
We weren’t particularly religious growing up. My parents went to church, and I attended Sunday school when I was little. I remember being in my dad’s arms as we entered the church, the dirge-like hymns echoing through the sanctuary—and throwing up my pancake breakfast in the vestibule.
After my parents separated, my mom still took us to church, and we always said grace before meals. But there was a noticeable shift early on. I’d catch glimpses of her kneeling at her bedside, praying quietly. Then she stopped going to church altogether. She said the minister and some parishioners judged her for being divorced. What a sucker punch for someone just trying to hold it all together. She never attended an organized service again. I’m pretty sure Jesus was right there, rolling his eyes at the antics of the self-righteous.
I had my own experience as a twenty-something. I joined a youth group that was organizing a food bank. When I volunteered, they asked me to lead the effort. I was energized by the idea of feeding the hungry—until it all came to a screeching halt. The sponsors explained that our true mission was to proselytize to the people we were feeding. Seriously? I had been so naïve. I thought we were feeding people because they were hungry. I left the group. If it’s not obvious why: “You can have the food, but only if you listen to us preach about Jesus.” Even my dog, Zipper, would’ve been offended—like when we’d balance a treat on his nose and make him wait to eat it until he was a “good boy.” Another eye roll.
That’s all religious talk – rules and regulations of behavior to signify divine compliance – but that’s not what I want to convey. I left those rules and regulations decades ago. But my love of Jesus, however, has never waned. I celebrate in my own way and honor the role he continues to play in my life.
Okay… back to Easter!
The best part—aside from the effervescence—was our new Sunday best. Me in a “fancy” dress with patent leather shoes, my brothers in new suits to keep pace with their growth spurts. And just as exciting: bringing our bikes up from the basement.
No matter how cold it was, Easter meant the bikes came out. Clutching the ice cold handlebars, dodging melting piles of snow on the sidewalk—we were beyond ready for spring, and everything it promised.
And the Easter baskets! Always hidden, filled with green straw, jellybeans, and a special orange chocolate bunny from a gourmet shop in the next town. One year, I went with Mom to pick them out. Edible bunnies weren’t quite the same after seeing them stacked commercially and having to wait in line to take one home.
One year, Peter’s basket was hidden so well—inside the doors of the hutch cabinet—that he started to panic. It was tragic… but not the kind of tragic that crushes your heart irreparably.
We usually had a quiet dinner at home with just the four of us, but one Easter, we went to Auntie’s for dinner. Borscht. To this day, I’m not sure if it was the original recipe—from boiling a cow’s head—or beet borscht. Either way, the idea was to ladle the borscht into each person’s bowl, then add your mix of sausage, hard-boiled eggs, horseradish, pierogi, pickles, pumpernickel… very Eastern European. It felt so cultural—a new experience for me. I loved it!
Of course, there was lamb cake too. The lamb cake was a traditional dessert in Eastern European communities, symbolizing the sacrificial lamb of God in Christian theology.
I continued the lamb cake tradition for years, as did some of my cousins… but that doggone cake was a challenge. Such a challenge that a backup dessert was always a good idea. Contrary to the spiritual meaning of the perfect lamb, on any given year the lamb’s head was held erect with 5–7 toothpicks, and the teetering lamb—ready to topple over at the slightest bump of the plate—had to be shored up as well.
My love for Easter continued into adulthood. Our hand-fasting wedding took place on the Saturday before Easter. In the Catholic Church, that timing is frowned upon. But we found our own justification and carried on.
For the wedding, the timing couldn’t have been more beautiful. We surrounded ourselves with hundreds of freshly bloomed irises—I’m giddy thinking of how special that was. The sun was warm with hope, and that effervescence was in the air.
As a couple, we continued our love of Easter and always made it a day with family. It felt special to celebrate that Saturday as our anniversary, too.
Each year, Easter feels like another chance for reflection and renewal. Although this year, that sense of hope feels a elusive. Collective Consciousness seems weighed down by acrimony. Still, I know the magic is there. I choose to stay open to it.
