We went to Jacksonville for Easter, partly so the kids could use the Chamblin’s gift cards they got for Christmas, and partly so we could attend my extended family’s annual Easter gathering.
There was a lot of eating.
On Saturday, Hazel had an appetizer of baby toes.
Saturday night, we went out for dinner with mom and then out for ice cream at the Dreamette, a legendary Westside establishment.
Sunday we had a giant breakfast at the Metro Diner, and then it was time to squeeze into our church finery. Whoops.
We did all right.
And here’s where I get on my curmudgeonly soapbox.
We do not consider Easter to be Christmas II. We do not give our kids toys, games, electronics, or wheeled things for Easter. Everyone gets a small basket of candy, because OH MY GOD WE JUST DID CHRISTMAS THREE MONTHS AGO AND I CANNOT DEAL WITH IT AGAIN. Some years we throw in socks and underwear, just for fun.
I can only stomach one quasi-religious gift-giving holiday in a year, it turns out. And while I enjoy “commercial” Christmas, with its festive holiday beverages, songs about snow (whatever that is), and strings of lights, the increasing commercialization of Easter really aggravates me. Maybe it’s the weather – in the middle of winter, we can all use some cheering up. But Easter falls right in the middle of spring, when temperatures are rising and things don’t look so bleak.
I think it bothers me as a Christian, which is a hard and awkward thing for me to type. Christmas, as most of us know, celebrates the birth of Jesus. Which, yeay, but everyone gets born. It’s a nice excuse to have a party and give gifts and whatever, but it’s not ultimately that big of a deal.
Easter, to those of the Christian faith, is the biggest effing deal of all. It’s the culmination of Holy Week, which should possibly be re-named Week of Unending Horrors. If you’re paying attention at all, you come through Holy Week feeling a bit battered, and by the time you get to the early morning hours of Easter Sunday, there’s a deep sense of stillness, and darkness.
Instead, most of us are like, “All-you-can-eat deviled eggs? Yeah! Pass the ham!”
I’m not so much of an Easter grinch that I want the Cadbury creme eggs ripped from the shelves, or a bonfire made of wicker baskets, but I do want to push back against the rising tide of consumerist frenzy that seems to get higher every year.
I love Cadbury creme eggs. I love ham at family lunches. And I love little kids with baskets.
But my wallet, and my sanity, can’t level up to Pinterest-worthy door wreaths and accumulating boxes of decorations to be hauled up and down from the attic.
We’ll be keeping our Easters small and simple.
Except for the creme eggs. I could eat like a hundred of those.