Today my family and I gathered with most of our in-laws and outlaws and had an Easter egg hunt. And enough food to feed a small church. About 500 eggs, give or take, were hidden. And most were found. Well, my father-in-law came up with 22 strays. The mower will no doubt turn up more. But kids ran around the lawn with abandon scooping them up. Last night my daughter and three of her cousins colored another round of hard-boiled eggs. Crazy designs and stickers. Messages written in crayon and painted on with q-tips. Brights and pastels.
Why were we doing this three weeks after Easter? Well, practically speaking it was when we could gather. It is a five-year-old tradition to hunt eggs and gather for a meal and other fun with both sides of our family. This year we just couldn’t make it happen on the weekend of Easter.
And one more reason: Easter is not just a day but a season, often called Eastertide. This point is often lost on many Southern Protestants, who grew up in traditions not overly familiar with the church calendar. Me included. As a kid, I somehow thought Easter was just that one Sunday a year. What a relief, really, to learn that it lasts longer than just one day.
And here’s a deeper set of reasons why I’m glad this is true: there is a lot in my life right now that needs remaking. Things, people, relationships, computers, and more have come undone in the months since Epiphany. And much is in a state of need for remaking. For healing. For taking new shape. Seasons of life can get out of kilter and I’ve certainly had one. If I can believe that resurrection is a matter of being remade, as I’ve tried to say lately, then I clearly need not a day, but a whole season (and longer) for that work in me.
Somehow I’m guessing I’m not alone.