This Easter

I was raised Catholic, and my mom was deeply religious, so this week has me thinking of her even more than ever. I remember coloring Easter eggs at the dining room table with my brothers, that food coloring mixed with vinegar, so that to this day, the smell of vinegar reminds me of coloring eggs. She showed me how to use a white crayon to draw a design on the egg shell before dipping it, and I marveled at my artwork appearing like magic on the colored egg (usually purple, my favorite color).

I remember her hiding our Easter baskets in the house so that we had to hunt for them, laughing and searching behind the couch, in cabinets, everywhere we suspected a basket full of chocolate bunnies and jelly beans might be stashed out of sight, while she watched and offered hints as needed.

And, of course, I remember going to church, wearing my best dress for Easter Sunday, my typically rowdy hair brushed into submission and my legs peppered with mosquito bites, scrapes, and Band-Aids. I can still perfectly picture that tiny church, sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, the waxy smell of candles in the air, the smooth, dark wood of the pews. On Easter Sunday, those pews would be filled with pastel pinks and blues and yellows, colors of spring and hope and new growth.

I drifted away from attending church as I got older, and I know that disappointed my mom. But her influence never completely left me, and much more of it stayed with me than she ever suspected. Most people might be surprised to know that I begin each morning with a prayer for all of my loved ones: my husband, the kids, my brothers. I say thanks for all that we have and for us finding each other. My husband is, beyond a doubt, the greatest blessing of my life, and I do believe that something beyond fate led us to each other.

This Easter Sunday, I won’t be sitting down on the footstool in the living room for my father to brush the knots out of my hair, and I won’t be grumbling under my breath as I tug a lacy, frilly dress over my head. I won’t load up in the car with my brothers, and I won’t sit next to my mom at church, listening to her sing, resting my head against her shoulder and smelling her light perfume.

But I will still celebrate Easter, in my own way. I will still think of my mom, my dad, and that tiny church. I will reach out to my brothers, try to connect over so many miles in between us. I will reflect on Easter and its significance and its meaning in my life. And I will say my silent prayers, say thank you for my husband, and be grateful that I will spend the day with someone I love so dearly.