I love Easter morning.
Not in a Pinterest-perfect, matching-outfits, beautifully-styled-basket kind of way. In the real way. The chaotic, coffee-first, someone-already-found-the-hidden-eggs-before-I-finished-my-first-cup kind of way.That’s spring in a family house. And I’m here for every messy minute of it.
Where it started for me
My Easter memories start with my grandparents.
Saturday evening church in my Easter dress – which often came from the local thrift store, but I didn’t care one bit. I was proud of that dress. I felt like a million dollars walking into that church.
For a lot of families, that’s what Easter is at its core – a day of faith, of resurrection, of something that goes much deeper than baskets and candy. And there’s something really beautiful about starting the day that way.
The weeks leading up to Easter were just as special as the day itself. My grandmother and I would do crafts for what felt like forever. Cotton ball lambs. Tissue paper chicks. We’d weave palm fronds at church into crosses and designs I was convinced were works of art. We’d make our Lent candle wreath together.
And the eggs. Oh, the eggs. 😉
We’d take plain white eggs and carefully – ever so carefully – poke tiny holes in the top and bottom. Then we’d blow all the contents out into a bowl. Those eggs became breakfast for days. And what we were left with were these impossibly delicate little shells that we’d spend hours painting and decorating like masterpieces. They didn’t get cracked and hidden in the yard.
They got kept. Displayed. Remembered.
Those are still some of my favorite memories I have.
The Hunt
Easter morning was dyed eggs mixed with plastic ones… some hiding coins, some hiding candy. Finding a quarter felt like striking gold at seven years old.
My basket always had a chocolate bunny, jellybeans, and an assortment of chocolates. I was a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup girl through and through. Still am. The Cadbury eggs never did win me over — and I’ve made peace with that. There were always oranges and apples tucked in too, because grandma was going to get some fruit in there no matter what.
The Dinner Table
Easter dinner happened in the dining room. The real dining room. The fancy plates came out. The good glasses. And my favorite part — the teeny tiny salt and pepper shakers that only appeared on special occasions, and my Shirley Temple in a proper glass that made me feel very grown up and very important.
The table felt different on Easter. Everything felt a little more intentional. A little more this matters.
What I want my girls to remember
My daughters are at the age where the magic is still real. The basket check first thing in the morning. The hunt that gets more competitive every year. The candy negotiation approximately four minutes after breakfast.
What I want them to carry isn’t a checklist. It’s a feeling. The same feeling I got in that thrift store Easter dress walking into Saturday evening church with my grandparents.
That this day is special. That we stopped. That we were together.
The longer view
I’ve been in real estate in this community for 23 years. I’ve helped a lot of families find their homes. And what I know after two-plus decades of watching people put down roots here is this… people don’t remember the square footage. They remember the Easter mornings. The summers at the pool. The neighbors who became friends. The springs that kept coming back and feeling like a fresh start.
That’s what a home gives you. Not just walls and a roof. The place where your mornings happen.
Home… where your story begins, and memories are made!
Happy Easter 
From my family to yours – however you’re spending today, I hope it’s full of the people and the moments that stick.
