We are all broken eggs. Easter wrecks me. There is something so profoundly undoing about it all.

The love. The cost. The hope.

So deeply constant but also newly demolished and reconstructed inside my heart.

Because every year, there is a new suffering, a new loss that changes how I see a Savior who would take every tear, every undoing, every consequence, every hurt and make it His for the whole of humanity.

I simply cannot even.

But this year I found something different.

Something unencumbered. Something simpler. Something a bit more tangible

It was placed in-between Palm Sunday and dyeing Easter eggs and a trip to Walmart.

Where I had been left to wonder when in the hoot we had decided to do more than throw a box of PEEPS at the kids and call it good or why the perfect Easter pictures and the perfect Easter brunch and the perfect, magical Easter baskets had become so utterly maddening.

But then it hit me.

After we dyed the first little hard-boiled egg in psychedelic colors and two of them cracked and three kids wholeheartedly agreed with the statement of one, “I’m not going to eat these because they smell like farts.”

We are broken eggs.

He came. He died. He rose.

Because we are broken eggs.

We live in the in-between, waiting for our hope to be realized. We live in smelly and often rancid imperfection. We live in a place where death still stings and tears still fall.

We are not Home.

Even though our chiffon and lace and lovely celebrations tell us otherwise. Even though Facebook will prompt us to post our perfect pictures and our coordinated outfits. Even though we will lose our stuff over chocolate dripping on the ever-lovely white sundress five minutes before leaving for church.

Even. Though.

We think the only thing that will make this look better…