My Easter Confession

Here we are on an Easter Sunday morning during the late 80’s. My daughters and me.

Back then, even though I don’t like to shop, I ran around town searching for just the right matching dresses for our girls. Their little Mary Jane shoes, white lacy tights, and hair bows had to match, too.

Then our son came along, so I coordinated his Easter outfits to ours (including my husband’s tie).

I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with new clothes, shopping, or dressing up. That’s not what this is about.

I knew the real meaning of Easter, but I didn’t worship.

I was too busy creating the illusion of perfection.

Sad, but true.

A few years ago, my husband and son built a huge cross midway down our gravel driveway.

Yesterday morning, I walked to the cross and remembered Easters when my children were little.

The air was damp and cool. Maybe like the Garden of Gethsemane.

I stared at the ground surrounding the cross, traced my fingertips along the rough wood.

Lord, forgive me for my pride. I didn’t worship You those Easter Sunday mornings. It was all about me.

Slowly, I raised my head and studied the cross.

Thought about His death. His outstretched arms. His resurrection.

You’ve been forgiven, He seemed to say. That’s why I died. Worship Me now. This very moment.

I glanced at my clothes.

Faded jeans, a T-shirt, my husband’s jacket, and my old tennis shoes.

Kneeling at the foot of the cross, my clothes didn’t matter. Not at all.

Thank you, Lord. I love You. More of You. Less of me.