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On Easter morning, as breakfast wound down and the kids fidgeted in their booster seats admiring their as-yet-empty baskets, my Catholic mother-in-law decided it was time to teach them about the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. It took a while, but she’s a great storyteller. They hung on every word.
“Three days later,” she said dramatically, “his friends went to the cave and discovered that big rock had been moved out of the way and… Guess what? He wasn’t there!”
They scrunched up their faces, thinking intently. Then one said, “So… is that cave where the bunny hid the eggs?”
