I always thought there was something wrong with me. There were certain holidays that meant nothing (or very little to me) and Easter was one of them.
You can excuse a kid if he/she feels nothing for a holiday that gives nothing back – not with birthdays and Christmas to contend with. But I’m an adult. I’m supposed to be better. It’s part of growing up – being more mature – understanding there’s more to the world than yourself.
Thing is, I think of myself as religious. I don’t go to church to speak in tongues, listen to gospel and Christian rock on my iPhone all day, or work a second job cold-calling the heathen, explaining how I accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior. But I don’t think that’s where God puts the bar. I’m not sure he even cares how I dress on Easter Sunday. I know… heresy, eh?
But what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I care? How can I believe and not care? Some of you might conclude I don’t, that I’m kidding myself. I could argue with you, but what’s the point?
Tomorrow’s Easter and all I can think about is how hard it’s going to be resisting the temptation to eat food my doctor says I shouldn’t. Those folks who say the secret to a good diet is moderation, not denial, don’t know me. Sweets are like crack. My memory for the smell and taste of sweets is acute, and reminders kill me… or rather, they will kill me. I’m going to be looking at candies, cakes, and all kinds of goodies all day. I won’t hear a word anyone says to me over the screaming of my eyes, nose, and stomach. And God help me if I start. I won’t stop until next Easter.
The rest of it makes me feel utterly indifferent. The thing is, I don’t want to be.