Beyond Chocolate Bunnies
Spring has sprung in all its spectacularness. The cherry tree has finished weeping its delicate pink blossoms, and now the crabapple takes the stage, showing off with bright, magnolia-like blooms. The early quince and daffodils have made their graceful exit for the year, but the ranunculus is bursting with color as forget-me-nots dance through the garden. I can finally work outside without a jacket—and of course, the weeds are erupting too.
It’s hard to believe that just three months ago the days were short, dark, rainy, and cold.
This is Easter week. Whatever your beliefs—whether Easter is for you a myth, a metaphor, a mystery, or a lived truth—it remains one of the great enduring narratives of Western culture. It has inspired countless works of art—and an entire industry devoted to chocolate bunnies.
When I was growing up, Easter meant decorating eggs, hunting for them in the yard, feasting on jelly beans, and delighting in pastel bouquets. Everyone dressed up—children and adults alike—hats and all.
We never dwelled on the fact that behind those cheerful hallelujahs lived a much darker story: betrayal, judgment, cruelty, profound suffering, and the kind of loss that tears your heart open.
We contented ourselves with jelly beans and chocolate bunnies.
I once attended a Good Friday service at a New Age church, where at the end of the service, the chapel darkened. Then—click—hundreds of candles were lit at once and the room blazed with light.
“Don’t we wait until Easter for the Light to return?” I asked a pew-mate.
“Nah,” he shrugged. “We all know how the story ends.”
But that’s not the whole story. What gives the Easter narrative its power—whether you see it as metaphor or fact—is that it passes through deep grief, uncertainty, and the long, liminal valley of not-knowing.
Instead, we often bounce like bunnies past the hard parts and skip straight to the chocolate.
Facing the whole picture
In times like these, with so much uncertainty about “where we’re going,” I take comfort in remembering that across time, people have endured long seasons of doubt, fear, and forsakenness, even as the great gears of history and evolution turned forward.
I’m not saying it’s easy. I hate seeing people suffer. I hate the lies, the loss of jobs, the cruelty, the corruption. It’s heartbreaking to see respected institutions under siege, the environment at risk, and the rule of law undermined.
But I find strength in stories where people face great hardship—and keep going. Stories that don’t skip over the dark nights, but show how endurance, hope, and transformation are forged in those very hours.
Many of us are living through a collective liminal space, as our institutions, values, and even our mountains come under attack. We don’t know who or what will be hit next. We witness the vulnerable suffering unjustly. We see beloved institutions buckling to bullies, and the legal values that once held us together unraveling.
I want to believe the light will return. I want to believe, as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded us, that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
But in the meantime, I need the strength and moral fiber to keep walking the path—like those who came before me—without knowing where it leads.
Growing toward the light
Of course, part of me longs to fast-forward to the happy ending, to know that the “bad guys” don’t win. And yes, if that ending came with a chocolate bunny—85% dark chocolate, mind you—I’d be tempted.
But in that fantasy, I wouldn’t need to grow. I wouldn’t need to cultivate inner resilience. I wouldn’t learn how to face the unknown without fear. I wouldn’t need to rise again.
So this spring, I’m listening more deeply to the stories that remind us how strength is forged—not just in the light, but in the shadows. Transformation doesn’t happen all at once. It asks something of us. It invites us to hold still in the darkness, to endure the uncertainty, and to stay awake through the long night before the dawn.
Maybe that’s what spring—and Easter—are really about. Not the guarantee that everything will turn out fine, but the quiet courage to stay present while the mystery unfolds.
