When I was little, growing up on the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro, Easter wasn’t about eggs or chocolate bunnies—it was about the outfit. It was one of only two times in the year (the other being Christmas) when you might receive something new to wear—or a hand-me-down from an older sibling that still felt just as special. We’d proudly put on our clothes, polished shoes, and head to church with family. Afterward, we’d gather for a large celebratory meal, full of joy, laughter, and the warmth of being together. The joy of Easter was tied to tradition, family, and the quiet dignity of renewal.

Fast forward to today—my own children wake up with wide eyes, ready to dash into their grandparents’ backyard for the great Easter egg hunt. They're on a mission to find the golden egg, whispering plans and chasing clues like little detectives. It’s loud, playful, sugar-filled—and completely theirs. A different kind of joy, but joy all the same.

I don’t go to church every Sunday anymore, but Easter still stirs something in me.
Maybe it’s the memories.
Maybe it’s the symbolism of new beginnings.
Maybe it’s the way grace keeps showing up—in family traditions old and new.

I’ve come to understand that resurrection doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s in the laughter of children hunting for eggs. In a warm hug at Grandma’s house. In the stillness of early morning when you allow yourself to hope again.

Easter, to me, is less about rituals and more about remembering—where we’ve come from, what we’re holding on to, and how we keep showing up with love.

So whether you’re sitting in a church pew or chasing kids through a backyard this weekend, I hope you find your own version of the golden egg.

And I hope you know that grace—quiet, steady, and real—is never far behind.