I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.  ~Song of Solomon 2:1

When I was a little girl I was not taken to church. I learned exactly two things about organized religion as a child: one, we were not Catholic; and two, we were Baptists. My mother imparted this knowledge to me in a course of events completely unrelated to any stripe of faith-based instruction.

The non-Catholic part I learned when, as a grade-schooler, I picked out a St. Christopher medal on a neck chain for my mother's Christmas present.

She had a taste for fine jewelry and I was even then a person of refinement.

I can still smell the hot vinegar.

But the cashier at our local K-Mart was brought up short when my mother, spying the trinket in my hand along with a sweaty dollar, told her we wouldn't be buying it.

"We're not Catholic," she explained in a low voice.

The cashier stashed my wholly inappropriate gift choice under the counter as she and my mother shared a conspiratorial chuckle at my expense.

That must have spurred me, ever the inquisitive one, to demand of my mother as we walked home exactly what we were, if not Catholic (a word which meant nothing to me).

"We're Baptists," she said.

But if you'd been witness to the lack of activity around our house at any time church services were being held in the community, I am certain you would have been justified in questioning the depth of our piety.

To put it plainly, Sunday mornings were for sleeping in, eating a late breakfast, and reading the funnies in living color. Later in the day you might sortie with your family, ending up at the beach or a drive-in movie.

The occasional Easter Sunday would, however, find our strange little clan bedecked in homemade finery -- to include hats of plastic straw and shiny white vinyl shoes with matching purses for my sister and me -- and ensconced for an uneasy hour in the back row of some packed-out local sanctuary or other.

I remember nothing about these visits to places of worship because they are memorable only for their marked infrequency.

My sister and I always received Easter candy in abundance, however. Our parents were generous and downright ceremonious when it came to the presentation and distribution of chocolate bunnies, jelly beans -- indeed, Easter candy of every variation -- the sugar blitz mitigated somewhat by the heavy, brightly-colored real eggs nestled in the shreds of synthetic "grass" that lined our baskets.

I can still smell the hot vinegar and see the little stemmed plastic loop one used to fish the stained eggs out of the steaming, garishly-hued liquid that had transformed them from plain white ovals into psychedelic freaks of nature.

(Nothing like a good hardboiled egg -- any shade of shell -- eaten standing by the sink, studded with grains of salt from a puddle in your palm.)

But at the age of fourteen, by God's grace, I learned the truth about Easter. That was when I recognized my need for a Savior and was told that my need had been met long before I existed, in the person of Jesus Christ. I accepted His finished work on the cross as being sufficient for my salvation, and I'm so glad I did.

From that day until this I have never doubted that Jesus Christ rose from the dead on the third day after His crucifixion, and that He lives in a real, actual Heaven with God, His Father, and that someday I will live there too.

I was privileged to marry a man who had come to the Lord at the age of twenty-two, and who, like me, wanted to establish a Christian home and rear children who would be taught the true meaning of Easter.

In the spring of 1998 our eldest daughter, Stephanie, had an opportunity to visit London and the Holy Land. Then a senior in high school, she had professed her faith in Christ as a six-year-old. When she returned home around Easter time, we all gathered in the family room to listen to her stories and receive the gifts she had brought us from abroad.

We were all in tears by then.

We hadn't been seated long when Stephanie began telling us about the day the group visited the "garden tomb" -- a borrowed sepulchre where the body of Jesus Christ had been placed after the crucifixion:

When the even was come, there came a rich man of Arimathaea, named Joseph, who also himself was Jesus' disciple: He went to Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. Then Pilate commanded the body to be delivered. And when Joseph had taken the body, he wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn out in the rock: and he rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed. ~Matthew 27:57-60

As she described the ancient place, I began to play the skeptic. "How can anyone be sure that's the very tomb where Jesus's body lay for three days before His resurrection?" I wanted to know.

After all, it was a long time ago. And had they made an appeal to her tender, sympathetic heart, wanting her to buy something? Just outside the place they identify as the borrowed tomb, they will try to sell you a splinter, claiming the very cross of Jesus as its provenance.

Religion is big business.

Stephanie, patiently and with the aplomb of a seasoned traveler, explained that even though it occurred more than two thousand years ago, Bible scholars and historians are fairly certain that they have correctly identified the very tomb made available by Joseph of Arimathaea for securing the remains of Jesus.

I must have continued to register doubt, because suddenly my daughter burst into tears.

"Mom," she said. "All I can say is that when you stand there, you just know that it really is the place."

We were all in tears by then. I handed Stephanie a Kleenex and she wept into it. I still have that long-dry tissue, stored away amongst other mementoes of her trip.

Today Stephanie is a pastor's wife and the mother of two little girls who will always know the true meaning of Easter. Although her tears have evaporated, her words -- and the conviction with which she spoke them -- still resonate with me.

I never eat chocolate bunnies on Easter anymore -- although I am not averse to consuming a raft of marshmallow peeps at one sitting -- but I always go to church, just like every other Sunday of the year. And yes, I'm a Baptist. I learned that on the way home from K-mart one day, my sweaty unspent dollar burning a hole in my pocket.

In the end of the sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to see the sepulchre. And, behold, there was a great earthquake: for the angel of the Lord descended from heaven, and came and rolled back the stone from the door, and sat upon it. His countenance was like lightning, and his raiment white as snow: And for fear of him the keepers did shake, and became as dead men. And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not ye: for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified. He is not here: for he is risen, as he said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay. ~Matthew 28:1-6

Jesus said ... I am the resurrection, and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this? ~John 11:25-26

Happy Easter!