Easter was last Sunday. There was no egg hunt at Little River Farm. Hasn’t been for years. The kids are grown. I mailed them a bit of chocolate and a spring treat for fun (more for me than for them). In the household quiet, I kept hearing this whisper: What is Easter to me now?
The juxtaposition of an empty nest and spring renewal rituals is unsettling and kind of existential. As a child, Easter meant hunting for eggs and discovering a basket of goodies. As a parent, I relished in preparing those colorful baskets, fretted over whether there was “enough.” Now though? With the retail buffers of peeps and plushies stripped away, this question again whispers: What is Easter? to me? now?
I see all the “He Is Risen” gifs. I was raised Catholic in the Bible Belt so I understand the significance of Jesus’ resurrection – even if my childhood memories are more a mashup of bluebonnets, white sandals, and easter egg hunts at church than any deep spiritual connection.
These days, though, it’s all just so … empty. The nest, the plastic eggs. I’ve felt this way before. Without the mooring of family traditions, holidays during the college years can be just meh. Midway through undergrad and almost 2000 miles from home, I wandered Washington Square Park untethered – right into an ecumenical Palm Sunday service. One of those perfect spring days in New York City where the sun shines its rays as if directly from heaven. I swear every single person in the park held a palm frond and a smile.
I went back for more later that week. This time, indoors and full of incense. Holy Thursday. Different vibe.
The modern understanding of the traditional reenactment of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples is understood as an act of service. But washing someone else’s feet is different than service. It is “loving humility” to kneel on the ground and to take another’s feet in your bare hands.
The allegory illustrates our shared humanity – the very human-ness of dirty feet. The fullness of the reenactment also shows us the exquisite vulnerability, awkwardness, and pleasure of having another person wash our feet. And of course, abasing oneself to cleanse another’s feet from where they have been and to prepare them for where they will go, well, this is unmitigated generosity.
Pope Francis was this sort of servant. He did not hoard Jesus’ love for himself or his flock. He shared it with sex workers and same-sex couples and immigrants. He famously washed the feet of HIV-positive patients and recovering drug addicts. His door wasn’t just open. There was no door. In his Easter message on his last day on earth, Pope Francis wrote, “Break down barriers and care for one another.”
Those words landed on me with the warmth and fullness of that Sunday in the park. Two radically simple calls to action:
- • break down barriers
- • care for one another
Isn’t the most precious moment of an egg hunt when one child helps another find an egg, or even offers one from her own basket? It’s not what is in the egg, or even the egg itself. It’s not the thing. It’s the action. Sharing the egg – the moment of connection – is the act that becomes a part of the daisy chain of loving humility. This is what Easter is to me now. A reminder to share because …
… there are enough eggs.
vidamixta 