Along with the "Son rise," Easter morning will bring a sunrise of laughs and reflection and thanks to the spirit.
One great chuckle for our family came when Lenten season began.
We were at St. Luke's Episcopal Church in Park City for Ash Wednesday, the service kicking off this period of contemplation and prayer.
Father Pat Finn was reeling us in like so many loafing fishes to the central tenet of the day, "And, of course, this is the time of year when we especially remember Jesus dying on the cross and giving us eternal . . . "
Brooks, the 5-year-old, stiffened in the pew. Looked around wildly.
"Jesus is dead?" he wailed through the sanctuary.
This is horrible news, his face said.
When did it happen?
What, did he die in a car crash?
Some dreaded disease?
Why didn't I hear about this?
Friends, perhaps you'll agree this kind of moment must be one reason Jesus digs kids.
Maybe it's why, when he was talking to a bunch of folks one day and some tykes had trouble pushing through the grown-ups, he said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not."
Could be he just wanted kids around, like we all do a lot of times. Often they're more interesting and honest and funnier than adults, aren't they?
Well, to show you where my wife, Dana, and I are on the spiritual journey with our little ones, we were still coming around the Cape of Good Hope on the crucifixion.
We hadn't broached it. Sunday School teachers are beginning to introduce it.
What we managed Ash Wednesday was Dana rat-a-tat-tatting a rapid-fire whisper: "Yes, Jesus died for us on the cross and he rose again from the dead and we'll all be with him in heaven and we'll talk about it on the way home and pass the collection plate and sit up straight and we love you and keep your hands off your brother."
OK, shoot us for ecclesiastical slacking.
Maybe we're coming tardily to a bedrock issue of faith but, you know, you do what you can, crossing the Royal Gorges of childhood passage — drugs, sex, love, marriage, God. You set tentative feet on a rickety bridge swaying in the wind, hoping your tortured explanations hold up and keep you from tumbling into an abyss of confusion.
Under the circumstances, I thought Dana did nice work with instant Gospel to go. We'll lay in the theological meat and potatoes as time goes on.
Meanwhile, as we've nibbled on the tender joy of Brooks' mini-epiphany the past few weeks, we've been short on other treats.
In keeping with the tradition of giving up something for Lent, we picked sweets. Of course, it's a cosmic piffle, not to be compared to real trials.
That's not to say it doesn't register on our inner radar. If there are two bigger chocohounds we don't know them. If you trace our family trees back far enough, there must be some Hersheys somewhere. While eschewing sugar can be a downer, there are upsides to Lent, from trivial to divine. For one thing, we always lose weight.
Then Lent ends and, like a battered space module re-entering Earth's atmosphere, you hope you don't burn up in the gastronomical splashdown of Easter gorging.
Still, I couldn't help going Friday to Sees for one of those baskets bearing such a symphony of delights, the sugar elves had to be working in harmony overtime to make it.
In the afternoon, I paused because Dana suggested we say a Good Friday prayer together from our respective offices. We agreed to look up inspirational thoughts on the Internet.
A little lame, maybe. But in today's rush you take your bytes of faith where you can. It got us baby-stepping, it seemed, toward the real meaning of Easter Sunday.
"Let me . . . live for Thy love and faithful service," one prayer said.
And let me be grateful for the feast of faith and goodies and words out of the mouths of babes this season.,P>
Gib Twyman's column runs Saturdays. Please send e-mail to gtwyman@desnews.com, faxes to 801-237-2121.