The Easter Story

I won’t go as far as saying that what happened this weekend was the worst thing to ever take place on Easter.
After all, we’re talking about a holiday in which part of the story involves a dude who was arrested, tortured and killed in one of the worst ways imaginable.
However, our Easter did involve a betrayal, a weeping mother and a child who gave everything until he had nothing left.
No – my son is not JC. And I’m no Virgin Mary.
But please allow me to share with you the Greatest Story Ever Written Mimicking the Greatest Story Ever Told.
It’s a story that has been foretold for centuries. Great parents of years past have alluded to it.
Even Monster tried to warn me it was coming. All week, he dropped hints – demanding toys without saying, “please,” throwing tantrums over nothing, waking in the night screaming.
But ever faithful, I ignored the signs and forged ahead with my plans for a joyful Easter, complete with an egg hunt I planned for Monster and his little friend, Jack.
Sunday morning, we walked into Jack’s home, and what a triumphant entrance it was. The boys cheered at the sight of each other, the dog wagged her tail happily. We were embraced and welcomed with open arms and much rejoicing.
The peace, however, was temporary. Monster immediately requested to see Thomas.
Sigh. Thomas. I have had my doubts about that little blue train for some time now. There has always been something about him I didn’t like – something dark. Maybe I always sensed Thomas and his little train pals would be Monster’s downfall.
So it was written, and so it shall be done.
As soon as my son walked into the upstairs playroom and saw Thomas, everything changed.
The sunshine outside faded, and wind whipped through my hair as I hid plastic eggs behind the slide and in the sandbox. I knew trouble was brewing as I looked toward the sky and saw dark clouds.
Still hoping things may not go as I feared, I called for the kids to come look for their Easter surprises.
But I was too late. Much, much too late.
My son appeared at the top of the steps, screaming and wailing in pain. He knew what he had to do, but he didn’t want to do it.
“Buddy, please put down the trains and come outside,” my husband pleaded as he forcefully separated a sweaty, broken toddler from the trains.
“No! No, Daddy! Why hast thou forsaken me?” the child cried. (OK, he didn’t actually say that second part – but he didn’t need to. His expression said everything.)
No matter how hard we tried, how agonizing it was to witness, we could not stop what ensued. A tortured, exhausted little boy wailed as we encouraged him to look for eggs. At one point, we pressed a Reese cup against his lips, hoping the taste of it might bring him some relief. But he turned his head and refused it.
After an enormous, courageous battle, my child threw his arms out to either side and cast his tear-soaked face toward the sky. “Daaaaaaaaddy,” he wailed. He collapsed, finally giving in to his fate – we were going home.
I cried the entire way, only occasionally glancing at Monster. It was just too painful to look at him.
I have always known that one day, my son’s tantrums would ruin my best laid plans. From the moment I first held him in my arms, I knew this little charmer would take me on many ups and downs.
Fortunately, in three days, this dark period will have passed, and my little angel will be back and better than ever.
Or so the story goes.
What a mean Momma, expecting her child to go hunt for Easter eggs.

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