I could chronicle my life in tantrums.
Two years ago, I demanded new Easter dresses and complained that we didn’t have reservations at the expensive place where all the neighbors have Easter brunch. Can you believe it? We were miserable in those dresses, and we changed into our shorts and t-shirts and ended up having a brunch of juice and popcorn out in the woods together. Easter rose up in my heart that afternoon.
Last Easter, God reminded me of his grace when I witnessed a flair disaster. It was a great Easter, and I didn’t even think about dresses or brunches or new hats and shoes. We didn’t need any of it. I actually woke up this morning thinking about how far I’ve come.
But just now, I find myself complaining to my husband that he didn’t get the Easter Egg Coloring Kit. I fall apart because we haven’t colored our eggs yet. I actually raise my voice. I’m throwing a tantrum about coloring eggs. I thought I had come so far!
I apologize to my husband and children, and as I stand in the kitchen, worrying that Easter’s not going to be good enough because the cookies aren’t right and the eggs aren’t colored, I let out a huge sigh and cry out, “I need the real Easter! I need it so badly.”
The real Easter is Jesus rising to save us from ourselves. And just when I think I’m finished with these tantrums, I find the old self oozing out. I’m glad it did. I won’t ever not need Him. I won’t ever be strong enough, mature enough, or wise enough to not need Jesus.
I need the real Easter! I need it so badly.
Journal: Will I find the real Easter?