happy easters

I’ve tried to remember how old I was when I discovered it wasn’t a giant white bunny who delivered my Easter eggs. I don’t recall my exact age but I do know that I kept it to myself for a good two years in order to avoid the risk of not receiving any eggs at all. My younger sister unfortunately never had that luxury as I made sure that she was out of the dark as soon as she could understand life’s harsh realities. However, by the time my other siblings came along I had developed some sense of compassion and left them in naive bliss until their peers dashed their innocence.
I know it’s not all about the eggs but, let’s face it, one can’t help but be enticed by the myriads of chocolate that line the aisles at this time of the year. I recall hunting for eggs in some pretty exotic places: a mansion in St James in Cape Town, the hills of the Scottish Highlands, Pirates Cove in Devon but the best ones were always in my own garden. Mom used to go to town on Easter egg hunts, writing poems with clues or drawing treasure maps. Pick ‘n Pay would sell boxes of Beacon chocolate marshmallow eggs and by the time Easter Sunday arrived I would have found fifty different ways to consume them – my favourite method introduced to me by my friend Chelsea who would microwave the egg for 10 seconds and then smear it all over her front teeth and pretend that she was toothless (hours of fun!).
This year I feel like the shops have had eggs on sale for months and as a result the novelty has worn off somewhat. The same can’t be said for hot-cross buns and the sooner Sainsbury’s take's them off their specials stand the better for my waistline.
Jokes aside, this year I’m taking some time to reflect on the significance of Easter and all that it represents – not just an excuse for a long weekend but that I am truly redeemed because of what Jesus did on the cross. Now there is a reason to celebrate…so bring on the chocolate.