My mother used to make our father go to church with us on Christmas and Easter. He’d stand and sit when everybody else did, but he didn’t kneel with us – he just slumped forward in his seat a bit.
It was good of him to go. His parents were Seventh Day Adventist missionaries when they met; in my father’s childhood even dancing was prohibited. He was resolutely agnostic as a result.
One year our parents took us to the White House Easter egg roll. We were supposed to push eggs with big spoons along tracks that were marked out on the lawn – it was a crazy process, because the eggs would catch on the grass and not go anywhere. I never did figure out what the point of it was.
Today my garden, flanked by the Easter bunny and the resurrection, is celebrating its own Easter.