I grew up with a mother and father who were raised Protestant. They kept it personal, however, not attending church, but rather praying on their own and living the word of God through their actions. I was raised Protestant as well, but was not forced into Sunday School or any other overtly religious practice. I was allowed to pray when I wished, read the Bible when I liked, and Christmas was more about family than the birth of the Saviour.
Easter was much the same. Every year I was too enthralled by the Easter Bunny and my new poofy dress to care much about the Resurrection of Jesus. When my dad would sit my mother and me down to read from the Bible, mostly I just wanted to go egg hunting.
But something happened as I got older – I started to care.
It wasn’t that I had become more religious. I just wanted to hear the stories. Even if I had trouble believing everything in the Bible, and was still grossed out by the idea of crucifixion, I was intrigued by the passion in my father’s voice and my mom’s quietly closed eyes. I saw how it affected my parents who were more traditional, and it made me, for that one day, care a little more. I listened more, and perhaps understood more as well.