Light on Wings

We just celebrated another Easter, and it was particularly special this year because it was Kaylee's first. (Not that she noticed at just 9 weeks old.)

It was a beautiful Easter with Chris' parents here at our house, lovely Charleston springtime weather, green buds and pink flowers sprouting everywhere you turned. Together we cooked and ate a delicious meal - all my Easter favorites: ham, banana pudding, macaroni salad. We delighted in Kaylee's soft coos and even her unrestrained cries. Kaylee grinned up at her G'ma and G'pa, studying their faces and smiling as their voices became more familiar through the weekend. My heart inflated with love at the mercy of our God and the sight Chris' parents discovering their new roles as grandparents, beaming with Kaylee in their arms. As a family, the five of us took a walk through the woods and into a field of white lillies. The sky above us was a mixture of Tarheel blue and stormy grey, as if the sunny and rainy weather were competing for the same space.

A similar struggle took place in my heart. Love and joy were at the forefront, but my soul ached for my own parents. Today is Monday and I am tired from stuffing down the sadness. That familiar, bitter concoction of sorrow and anger kept sliding its way back to me during the weekend.

When I grew up, Mom and Dad loved Easter, and it was very well celebrated in our house every year. My sister and I woke up to purple and pink Easter baskets (mine a little bigger than hers) sitting on the kitchen table stuffed with Milky Ways, Chocolate bunnies, and usually a stuffed animal or Barbie doll. Beside these baskets were others filled with colorful eggs we had dyed together the week before. After a big breakfast we would put on our new brightly colored and freshly starched Easter clothes - new dresses for us girls and a bright sky blue or yellow shirt for Dad. Then we would head to church. The old hymns and sermon were familiar that day, relaying the joy of salvation found in Jesus' empty tomb and pierced hands. As I got older, the day began much earlier with a pre-dawn trip to the beach for a sunrise service.

I know it is up to me to continue these traditions that are so dear. As my daughter grows up, I will uphold the customs my parents gave to me, as well as those my husband grew up with. I look forward to watching Kaylee run through the yard searching for Easter eggs, squealing in delight with each colorful egg she uncovers. I love Easter as my parents did. To me, Easter feels like a New Year as my sins are washed away in Jesus' blood and God is evident in the dawn of spring and the celebration of the rising of our Lord. On Easter, as I do every day, I will remember my parents and thank them for their teachings of faith and extra special traditions. But what will I do to lessen the pain of them not being here with us? Several times for just a fleeting second or two this weekend I felt the urge to go to my room and tear up, feeling sorry for myself and my sweet baby girl because for every joyful moment in my life, I am rocked with a feeling of loss and longing for my parents. I'm haunted by what is missing for my daughter. How can it be that this beautiful child will never know the love and warmth of my parents? That I will never buy Milky Ways and a purple Easter basket together with my mom and then sneak them in the house while Mom distracts Kaylee. I have to find a way to feel and know my mother is with me for myself and for my sweet Kaylee. I don't want to feel sorry for us ever. Is there a way to experience pure fulfillment like I remember before my parents were gone?

Lord, as I am reminded of your unwavering love proven by the sacrifice you gave to us, please teach me to not feel the burden of missing Mom and Dad every time something happy takes place in our lives. Please help me to soak in sweet memories and feel pure, bright joy that is never tinted with the