Painted Eggs and Brotherly Love

This year for Easter, April 20th, 2014 in the Year of Our Lord, I witnessed a miracle.

I’m not the religious type, but I can say this. Though I don’t believe in heaven, occasionally have been known to do a little blaspheming in the name of a good joke, and understand the outdated philosophies of the Old Testament, I have also read most of the Good Book and think I have a handle on what Jesus is all about. He’s a dirty hippy, a laboring fisherman and carpenter. He’s a traveler and his associated are liars, whores and outcasts. Like all of us, there is no perfection, but more good intention than most of us have combined.

So this morning, as our boys rose from their sleep in our little 100 sq ft or so home on the road, they were told nothing of a man rising from the dead to set forth quotas on what might get you the good real estate after death. Instead, they saw homemade baskets stuffed with sage and other desert brush near our campsite. A chocolate bunny or two and a single squirt gun in each basket complemented one small gift for each.

Wylder Reisen, our baby boy, spent the morning hugging a little stuffed bighorn sheep. His older brother Winter flew a little Planes jet around the Airstream. Tristan, older than both by a decade or more, read a comic book about time travelers who visit National Parks a thousand million years ago.

No tales of blood being shed. No threat of burnination should they choose to spend their Sunday mornings with family. Not a holy word was spoken.

Lessons on sharing were had over coffee, on giving your little brother a chance during an egg hunt, and on saving half of that choco-bunny for later.

I can’t help but think that’s the kid of thing ol’ JC was after. Kindness, loving your brother, you know, hippy shit.

Up Next: The Year of the Em Dash