I love Easter.  Mostly because this celebration is the very foundation of my faith.  Without it, my hope is in vain.  Though I can’t help but to have also fallen in love with its traditions.  Gathering Sunday morning, indulging in a few sweet treats, dressing up just as springtime flowers do, and hunting for pastel-colored eggs.  Do you remember those plastic sleeves that magically slurp themselves onto an egg as soon as it’s dunked in hot water?  You had to hold the spoon ever so gently so that your egg would not be lost to a warped piece of plastic that shamefully shrunk off the tip of the egg.  How funny the things we remember.  I do wonder what Eve’s memories will be, as we begin the tradition of rising with the sun to celebrate with our church family, scouring the house for eggs in pretty dresses, and partaking together in a feast of ham and Lebanese bread.  This one she won’t remember, but I will have the photographs to share, and I will remind her how bright her eyes were when Daddy helped uncover another egg, but more than that, how she couldn’t get enough of colorful, crinkled paper.