Easter’s Death Springs Renewal

Reli­gious, no.

In fact, if there is a god, I’m still pretty pissed off at him.

Today, though, I can’t help but con­tem­plate the reli­gious mean­ing in both Easter and Passover.

Seven years ago, on Easter Sun­day, my hus­band, Erik, and I admired our 17-month-old daugh­ter, Tatiana, as she care­fully grasped pur­ple and pink polka-dotted eggs in the grass.

“Do you think about how lucky we are,” I said to Erik.

He rubbed my ripe, preg­nant belly. “Yeah, I think about it at least five times a day.”

Erik was a rising-star man­ager for Lucas Dig­i­tal and I had pho­tographed over two-thousand North­ern Cal­i­for­nia fam­i­lies through my children’s pho­tog­ra­phy busi­ness. We were both 29, both excited to be only two months away from the birth of our sec­ond daugh­ter, Keira.

For­tu­nately, our mar­riage had reached the point in which laugh­ter, or the play­ful flick of a mid­dle fin­ger, could end most conflicts.

That Easter Sun­day, right after our casual fam­ily din­ner, Erik kissed all over Tatiana’s round, olive cheeks. “Who’s my itty bitty ditty bug?”

She kicked her legs, in her lime-green high-chair, squeal­ing with delight, “Da-Da!”

And then the delight van­ished. Laugh­ter silenced itself, as we watched Erik slide down the kitchen counter.

Are you kid­ding me?

He lay motion­less on the cold, white-tiled kitchen floor.

“Erik, get up.”

Then I noticed the blood. A line of blood trick­ling down his mouth.

This can’t be happening.

“Don’t worry, Tatiana. Da-da’s going to be okay.”

But he wasn’t okay.

No, Erik did not rise like the sto­ries of Jesus. Nor did Erik’s blood mark him to be passed over.

Erik was dead.

Just like that.

So, here it is, seven years later, and this scene has ham­mered my mind like an inces­sant wood­pecker. Again and again, I have let grief’s beak rip open my fore­head, in order to make sense of things.

But this Easter morn­ing is different.

This Easter, Tatiana and Keira, now 8 and 6, have an older brother and a new baby brother. This year, we are all blessed by Evan, my new Match​.com hus­band, who adopted the girls two years ago.

And this year, Easter just so hap­pens to be April 4^th, the day before Evan’s April 5^th birthday.

What does this mean?

I used to think that Erik’s death on Easter Sun­day sim­ply packed my anger with more ammu­ni­tion, but now I have deeper understanding.

Like these two dates, death and life sleep side by side.

Because of my sad­ness, my joy is now ampli­fied. Because I have wit­nessed death, I know to cel­e­brate life.

Now, as Evan and I help our four chil­dren dec­o­rate their Easter eggs, I feel the renewal in Spring.