The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and the promise of spring is in the air.
Easter is four weeks away. My childhood memories include new clothes (head to toe), dying hard-boiled eggs that only my father would eat, and going to church with an anticipation that this was indeed a high holy day, that outshone all the other Sundays in the year.
Now I am an adult, with grown children who don’t ask for new outfits (okay, let’s be honest- my boys never cared about a new Easter outfit), don’t dye eggs, and two of the three won’t be home to go to church with us.
I’ll go to church with the anticipation of a pleasantly full sanctuary, a filled parking lot, and a family meal afterwards. I do view it as a high holy day, a day set aside to remember the ultimate sacrifice and gift of Christ’s death and His resurrection. But I don’t view it as outshining all the other Sundays in the year. Every Sunday is a day set aside to remember Christ’s life, sacrifice, and triumph over death. Every Sunday is the opportunity to come together with others who believe as I do. Every Sunday is the opportunity to get over myself and focus on the gift of life that Christ gives me. Every Sunday is a high holy day.