I didn't go to church for about 10 years, save a random Sunday or two. Odd, considering I was once a ministry major - misguided, sure, but devoted.
One Saturday night, years ago, my friend Michelle and I were closing down the bar. Literally, like we did every weekend. She was a mother to three charming girls. Girls that didn't believe in Jesus, but certainly had high expectations of the Big Bunny Himself.
We were turning out the lights and locking up when Michelle realized that Easter was the next day. It was now Easter morning.
We raced to the only market open and dug through the leftover jellybeans and misshapen bunnies until we had enough supplies to outfit an army of Girl Scouts. And then we headed to a dingy bar, the only place in town still open, attached to a Chinese restaurant. It was a dive, but the bartender was a kind, older woman that ran a tight ship, so it would have to do. While the drunk got hosed and the lonely kept their own company, we created three baskets Hallmark would be proud of.
Easter was saved.
Whenever I get the kids' baskets out, you know, *wink* to assist Mr. E. Rabbit, *unwink* , I think of the all-nighter Peepfest.
We Moms somehow manage to pull something out of our hats. Even if there are stale peanuts involved.