I’m a Christian who believes in the Easter Bunny. In 1971, my godfather gave me a copy of DuBose Heyward’s The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, and I was converted.

The young Country Bunny, like all little bunnies, wants to grow up to deliver Easter eggs. But she’s a girl with brown fur, and the white jackrabbits laugh at her. They tell her to go have babies.

She does. The Country Bunny has twenty-one babies, and in them, she sees their different gifts. She trains them to do work they’ll each enjoy: sweeping, cooking, sewing, painting, dancing and singing. She honors the spirit in every little bunny, and wonderful things happen.

I believe in the Easter Bunny because I believe in the grace-given spirit of every child—brown or white, rich or poor. I believe when gifts are shared, we become the Christians we are meant to be.

Boykin Dunlap Bell is Director of Christian Formation at The Chapel of the Cross in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

- Boykin Dunlap Bell

Just before Easter a few years ago, I sat in a circle of children recounting by heart the story of Jesus’ last days using “The Faces of Easter” from Godly Play. It is one of the longer stories, and the younger children were restless. I spoke of Jesus’ ministry, the Last Supper and his arrest. These
children knew the story. They went to Christian preschools, attended church regularly and read storybook Bibles at home. And yet, when I took the seventh image from the box saying, “that afternoon, Jesus died,” they sat up straight and cried aloud. “What!” “Why?” “How did that happen?” I can still remember clearly the voice of a small four-year-old asking repeatedly, “Why did they kill him, Ms. Sarah?”

When we know the story, it is easy to feel we can just skip right to the end, to the good news of resurrection. I often do. I was shocked by the response of these children who had heard the story many times before. But they have reminded me to sit with death once in a while, to consider how the disciples must have felt. They did not know for sure Jesus would return. They, too, must have wondered, “What! How?! Why did they kill him?!”

Sarah Bentley Allred is a seminarian at the Virginia Theological Seminary.

- Sarah Bentley Allred

In the Godly Play room just before our feast, I light the Christ candle and we enjoy the light for a bit before diving into our snack. The candle sits in the middle of our circle, and we may not even notice flickering as we chat about the past week. But it’s there: the Light of the World.

When everyone’s done feasting, I extinguish the flame, changing the Light. We watch it transform from flame to smoke that moves around us like the Spirit of the Lord—promising to follow, keep watch and hold us tight. Then we take that changed light within us out into the world, where hopefully we can choose to make small changes this week.

I encourage you to light a candle and enjoy the light for a moment. Then change that light so you may take it with you into the world.

Carrie-Anne Kokubun is a Children, Youth and Family minister at Epiphany Episcopal Church, Honolulu, Hawai’i.

- Carrie-Anne Kokubun

These words of my younger son have challenged me more times than I can count. I am the sort of person who tends to err on the side of “When I am happy/content/secure/(fill in responsible and cautious adult words here), then I will take that risk, try that new thing, go toward the unknown.” But instead, it is as Miles wrote: We must begin by being adventurous.

Adventures are the beginning of the journey, not the end. Adventures are not the payoff—they are the work. This is why being a Christ follower is such a life-rattling thing to commit to. Following Christ and living a gospel-centric life is anything but safe and secure, easy or common. It is a great, wild and sometimes dangerous (at the very least ripping apart our
assumptions and our hearts) work. And yet, the reward, the payoff, is joy. Buckets and buckets of joy. The kind of joy that radiates unconditional love and removes aloneness—the kind of joy that infects the world. But first: Adventure.

Jerusalem Jackson Greer is Minister to Children, Youth and Families at St. Peter’s Church in Conway, Arkansas, and author of At Home in this Life and A Homemade Year. She blogs at jerusalemgreer.com.

- Jerusalem Jackson Greer

The human body is fragile. We know we live on borrowed time. Sculpted by the Creator, our bodies are like clay jars: beautiful, functional and breakable. As parents and guardians, teachers and mentors, we are keenly aware of the fragility of children. We leap to nurture and protect these
treasures by setting boundaries and teaching them self-care.

Yet the knowledge that clay can shatter comes only from experience. In the early years, children’s delicate bodies fly through the world full of grace, wonder, and re-creation.  Radiating the light of Christ, children naturally glorify God in their bodies by putting them to their proper use—the very
definition of sanctification.

Despite our fear of fragility, we must become like children; we must remember whose we are—we must remember that our borrowed life is gifted with meaning and purpose. With our bodies, we must answer God’s call to make manifest a love so extraordinary that God “gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may
have eternal life” (John 3:16).

The Rev. Regan M. Schutz is Director of US Training and Director of Communication and Development for the Godly Play Foundation.

- Regan Schutz

I keenly feel the need to provide for my family. With the birth of my son, I feel that urgency with an imperative that borders on panic. This means I occasionally withdraw into the cocoon of my labors, locking myself away from the family for which I am working so hard to provide.

Longfellow’s poem continues by telling the story of three young girls plotting to ambush their father in his study. He hears them and plays along, collapsing into a tangled web of children and laughter upon their “sudden raid from the hall.” This is a beautiful image of family.

Longfellow’s poem reminds me to stop, to remember the Children’s Hour for my son—so he can feel my touch and hear the joy he brings me in our shared laughter. It also makes me think of the happiness Christ must feel when we take time from our busy lives to be present with him, as well.

If we are not holding apart sacred moments to be present with our loved ones throughout the day, what is the purpose of this life? What do we lose if we are not willing to pause at the Children’s Hour?

Chad Brinkman is the Program Officer for Engagement at Episcopal Relief & Development.

- Chad Brinkman